


Take Me To Church

by Left_Handed_Rick



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: 10k of the wordcount is endnotes, 4/20 Sin, Abusive Relationship, Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Body Worship, Bottom Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), Complex Emotions, Cycles of abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Emotional Speedballing, Escapism, Existential Depression, Flawed characters, Gooming Aftermath, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Abuse, Mental Illness, Music Kink, Other, Past Child Abuse, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Self-Medication, Sensory kink, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Starry Citadel AU, Sub!Rick, Substance Abuse, Subversive Spiritualism, Suicide Attempt, Tantric Sex, Technicolor Noir, Transferrence, Unreliable Narrator, bilingual rick, but really he's ambidextrous, conflating love and violence, institutionalization, love takes hard work, past abusive relationship, psychadelia, sense as an erotic element, stuck in a loop, weed kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 109,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Rick/pseuds/Left_Handed_Rick
Summary: R owns a small record store and lives within the ritualistic parameters of a routine, daily life. Ricks on the Citadel generally have too much idle time to think, so he buys weed from a pair of squatters, gets high on quality shit, and vibes to good sounds in his shop – because he can really fuckin' start to overthink shit if he can't find a way to"turn on, tune in, and drop out".His life is taken for a spin when he meets a Morty using music as a means to escape his own shitty circumstances. R hates other Ricks as much as he hates himself, however, and when Morty starts to develop romantic feelings for him, R insists that love's nothing more than a drug, and there is nodifferent kind of Rick.Slow burn that deep dives into themes of madness, music, and weed. Heavy elements of depression, escapism/drug use, violence, existentialism, identity, living with trauma, breaking patterns of abuse.Check individual chapters for TW's.Both characters are victims of different types/degrees of abuse, and are broken and fucked up, but the endgame is a good slice of life ending, full of sweet psychedelic lovemaking, where they try to fit the pieces together.





	1. My Lover's Got Humour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isthis0rganic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthis0rganic/gifts).



> _Dedicated to my fandom friend, NaughtyOrganic. This fic would not exist without you. Beta by the wonderful, amazing_[ squikkums.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squikkums) Give their fics some love!  
> 
> 
> ###  Extras for this fic 
> 
>      [ ✦ Starry AU World building & Update Schedule](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/)   
>  [◉ Cover Art on Mastadon ](https://fandom.ink/@left_handed_rick/101276025601461917)   
>  [ ◉ Follow Along Fic Playlist on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue/playlist/69x5YgmwyLdrcdUtgCrP6y?si=9Nko-uiNRfqaJZ21GgKsWQ)   
>  [ ◉ Fanart (and artist credits) on Mastadon ](https://fandom.ink/@left_handed_rick)   
>  [◉ Psychedelia/Summer of Love YouTube playlist ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPSzTBP5PAU&index=2&list=PLrWLuvbMN7cC2Vhgi-tvkJTDwBQFrriWZ&t)   
> 
> 
> ###  Authors Note 
> 
> The chapters of this fic are intended to be read in pairs, which I am calling "Smoke Sessions". You are your own person, but the chapters are written to work as foils to each other. I will update each "pair" within a day of each other. 
> 
> This story is going to explore a lot of themes and ideas (Music, 60's psychedelia, mental illness, identity), but at it's core it is a story about our protagonists learning how to break out of cycles of addiction, violence, abuse, and chronic depression. It takes place during a pivotal moment for our protagonists, where they are made to confront the consequences of their addictive lifestyles, which are, in part, various coping mechanisms of trauma. In trying to form a relationship, our protagonists will first have to learn to find their identity in more than their trauma, and more fully understand the pervasive patterns of self-harm, which have become entrenched over a lifetime of repetition. 
> 
> Here is a breakdown of the Arcs.  
> 
> 
>      **❶ Chapters 1– 6:** The Good Shit  
>  **❷ Chapters 7– 18:** Shit Hits The Fan (The Angst™ Arc)  
>  **❸ Chapters 19– 26:** Putting the Pieces Back Together: The Comfort side of Hurt/Comfort  
>  **Chapter 27** Wrap Up, Epilogue  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You either feel it or you don’t, that’s really all there is to it._

There was something about having a routine that helped Ricks cope with the stress of everyday life. Predictability. Expectation. The offered blessings of society, that imparted an overall sense of being in control.

Which was why R had made the deliberate choice of painstakingly putting in the elbow grease to build the comforts of his daily rituals, enjoying the illusion of control it offered. The resulting day-in and day-out expectations life and Citadel society held him to were minimal. It was how he preferred it.

The truth, cold and uncaring as the void, was that, subjectively speaking, Ricks were only ever as _in control_ as they believed themselves to be.

He rose to greet each day on a rigid, internal timekeeping schedule. In the comfort of his loft, he lazily jerked off his morning wood and dressed, before making his way to the kitchenette to stave off his coffee addiction, and enjoyed a simple breakfast of a fried egg, avocado, and sunflower seeds over a slice of toast. Still barefoot, about an hour after waking, he carted his coffee down to the lower level of his apartment and made his way to the storefront to open for business. Since his business was also his home, he didn’t see any point in wearing shoes. Fuck shoes.

 

He called it R's.

 

He could never decide what the R should stand for: Rick, Records, Relaxation, some clever wordplay on the idea of a collective – So he just said fuck it, and left it at the single letter, figuring his laziness would come off as cool and trendy.

The record store owner even began referring to himself as “R”, but his regulars had always called him Record Rick, or Record Store Rick. He wasn't upset over it _– lo que sera, sera –_ If there was one unspoken rule about the Citadel, it was that Ricks and Mortys didn’t get to choose their own name– they had no intrinsic identity.

Everything a Rick was could be surmised by the things he did, and R supposed in the context of multiverses, Ricks on the Citadel, at least, had more of a chance to form a unique identity separate from the canon. Once a Rick made an attempt at living on the Citadel he quickly realized that his single identifying characteristic of intelligence no longer set him apart from the herd – when everyone was a genius, no one was, and in the ensued identity crisis a Rick would attempt to re-invent and differentiate himself with a persona that suggested that, deep down, there existed a previously unexplored well of potential.

But the idea of _deep down_ didn’t really exist in the Citadel. Beneath the surface of their already fragile ego, Ricks were inevitably, even bigger dicks and assholes posturing platitudes, and R wasn't an exception to that. _Even deeper down_ , he only selfishly cared about himself, particularly about getting high, and turning himself on to some good music so he could turn off his thoughts for _one fucking second._

In the meantime, ruminations on the Citadel of Ricks, such as the one he was currently immersed in, was an absurd and welcome distraction from the ultimate meaninglessness of his collective existence.

Acknowledging the bell's comforting chime, the Citadel business owner stepped through the doorway and out onto the porch of his business' storefront, mug in hand, to take in the scene of another, familiar, starlit morning. Indulgently sipping his liquid pick-me-up, he raised his other hand in a slight wave to the permanent fixtures of his lifestyle. A pair of drug-dealing squatters, who went by Rick and Silent Morty, quintessentially leaned against the building's tall glass windows, engaged in a one-way conversation that sounded like a eulogy for Shitadel pipe dreams.

 

 

“You know, sometimes...I wish I did a lot more with my life...instead of coming to the Citadel and hanging out in front of places selling weed and shit. I could have been the first Rick to fuck my way through Cosmos Redshift 7! Why not me!? I'm a Rick!”  

Silent Morty gestured in agreement.

“...and other Ricks would look at me and say, 'Holy shit...That Rick fucked an Aksudzie.'"

R took another sip of his mug, judgementally wondering way _anyone_ would want to fuck an Aksudzie. He considered their ritualistic, empty discussion about _abandoned hopes and dreams_ , as his own thoughts continued to shallowly turn. 

The concept of freedom and free-will within a deterministic multiverse was some really heavy shit to wake up thinking about, and the general citizen consensus was that  _being_ free and _believing_ themselves to be free was really just a minutiae distinction. Ricks, like the pair currently blowing trails of verbalized thought into the backdrop of an impersonal cosmos, just liked to talk about leaving the Citadel as a way to pass time. Deep down, imagining the “could-a should-a would-a’s" was just another illusion of control Ricks liked to believe in. 

 

Ricks rarely, if ever got out alive.

 

He shrugged dismissively at the thought of different coping mechanisms, and continued to ear hustle their rambling thoughts, not wanting to interrupt, but also selfishly desiring to do just that.

When the dynamic duo first started squatting his storefront, R accused them of killing the vibe in general, and shouted at them to stop _fucking up his day._ Then, Silent Morty sold him the loudest shit he'd bought in a while, and that was how they worked their way into his daily routine and storefront, giving him the “squat and push” discount. R wound up winning the Citadel lottery with the added luxury of an unending supply three feet from his front door. He’d even recently started recommending certain selections and strains from their backpack bodega to accompany the music he sold. If done right, the way in which weed and music elevated each other could be transcendental.

“You guys got any more of that Peach Piss? Need a good wake and bake today.”

The strains Rick and Silent Morty pushed always had shit-for-Rick names. But the product was always quality. One would think that corralling an infinite number of geniuses in an experimental pop-up society like the Citadel would _only_ result in the creation of all the sweet, experimental substances a Rick could wet-dream up – but going back to that theme of even deeper down, Ricks were assholes, and so there existed, in equal proportion, scams and shit-product flooding the streets.    

R popped the seal on the ziplock and took in a deep whiff of the poignant plant Silent Morty revealed from his pack. He licked his lips turning an orange nugget in his fingers to admire the tiny pink crystals. He always knew their shit was good, but he loved the ritual of buying from them. It was a kind of foreplay for the eventual high.    

If a Rick’s identity was merely defined by the things he did, then R’s identity revolved around repetition, drugs, and music as the Citadel rotated under the ever-present stars. It had taken him a while to get used to the artificial timekeeping of his new home, but in the face of such an existential dread, brought on by considering the idea that he couldn’t feel time pass on the Citadel... because feeling such a sensation was a key feature of subjective consciousness, leading the stoner to question the nature of his reality, – that maybe the Citadel was like the Matrix or some shit – or that hell was other Ricks...maybe it was some Jacob's Ladder mindfuck. Maybe even _he_ wasn’t objectively real…

 

_Don't think about it._

 

In the face of such an existential dread brought on by considering the idea that he couldn’t feel time pass on the Citadel, he got really fuckin’ high until he felt okay about not being real. The unending cosmos – mostly void, partially stars, continued to loom heavy over daily life. He got high on a self-medicated schedule and ensured the controlled illusion of time passing within the comfort of familiar, daily routines.

As a general rule of thumb, Ricks on the Citadel had too much idle time to think about shit. If R fell off of his automated ritualistic track, he’d overthink himself into latent insanity. Recreational escapism, which for R meant "Turn on, tune in, drop out”, was the closest thing to freedom on the Citadel he had.

He sat behind the countertop, scrunching his Peach Piss morning bowl, and was just about to light up when a quiet, mousy voice interrupted his morning.    

“Um. Excuse me...do you have any constellation music?”

An extremely nervous Morty sporting a shock of crimson red hair, shyly poked his head over the countertop. R supposed he really couldn’t think of this Morty as being nervous or shy, since Mortys were by definition those things, but this Morty, wearing a red shirt instead of the traditional yellow, nervously rapped his gloved fingers on the glass countertop and poked rose-tinted John Lennon sunglasses over the counter with such a timid demeanor that just seeing him, made the stoner understand the literal definition of those words more clearly.

R smiled toward the glasses, remembering what it was like to see the world as if it were a Beatles song, and set his piece down with a teasing smirk.

“Wh– what is that, like Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds? Kid, I’m not caught up with your generation’s slang, you gotta catch me up here.”

“You know uh… like a variety of music.”

Morty avoided eye contact with the older man, and instead glanced curiously around the store. R bragged about his collection to the potential customer.

“Well, I’ve got everything in the observable universe, and a few interdimensional bootlegs, so sure, I carry ‘constellation music’.”

As the redhead stared at the islands, and ceiling to floor shelves of records, an overwhelmed expression began to settle over his features.

“I don’t know much about music, y’know, but I– I wanna learn.”

“You listen to it.” R gave a light chuckle, “and you either feel it or you don’t, that’s really all there is to it, kid.”

The teen's eyes blow into saucers at the straightforward statement, and the record store owner thought he even caught a hint of some misty eyes behind the rosy spectacles. This Morty had definitely been pushed around by some Rickoff with a self-aggrandizing “taste” in music. He frowned at the thought and further explained to the teen.

“I-I mean yeah, sure, we all have our tastes and preferences, and it’s good to have a contextual understanding of an artist and their work so you can share and talk about it – but at the end of the day it’s about whether or not you’re down to vibe, you feel me?”

Morty's eyes narrowed suspiciously at R as if the answer could never be so simple.

“What kind of music do you listen to?”

“I like everything. As for my favorite song? _Breathe,_ from _Dark Side of The Moon_ by Pink Floyd,” R spoke without hesitation before quickly adding. “Why? Because it’s consistently been my absolute favorite song to get high to.”

Before Morty could respond R continued to interject, “yeah, it’s really that simple.”

“So uh, you- you wouldn’t tell me it's bad to listen to someone like Justin Bieber?” Morty asked, before quickly recovering, “I don't- that's just an example.”

R internally grimaced at the name. Mainstream music was going to be the death of his establishment. Kids these days – though to be fair, Ricks should be included in that lamentation – didn’t search out anything that wasn’t on [ Radio Rick's Citadel top 40](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue/playlist/3J9nNGvcQyq8CKerQ0mtYg?si=vjBFgdfqQ6i36IiIafxTrA).  _Fuck that guy._ He sarcastically rolled his eyes in dismissal, exhaling a puff of far too sober air across the counter.

“Nothing wrong with liking mainstream kid, everyone’s gotta start somewhere – but I-I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you let me turn you on to a couple other sounds? You still wanna be a belieber, you can jerk it to _Love Yourself_ like there’s no tomorrow. But I wanna blow your palate a bit, help you get your dick wet in something else, 'cause you’re living life off the dollar menu here – there’s way more out there to experience.”  

“I also like The Beatles.” The redhead offered, and R in turn reciprocated with a nostalgic smile. Those glasses couldn’t be entirely serendipitous.

“Everyone likes The Beatles, unless they wanna be a contrarian – but look, I can’t make a living peddling ideological bullshit. It’s just easier for me to show you how to have a good time.”

R decided to save his wake and bake bowl for a good wind down later that evening, opting for his trusty DIY bong in its place.  Made from a converted absinthe bottle, it always got the job done. The older man pulled it out from under his glass countertop and grabbed the bag of Peach Piss before making his way toward the back of the store.

“C’mon, Morty, we're late for Church.”

R scoffed, and rolled his eyes at the invitation. So much for not peddling ideological bullshit. He led Morty to a beaded curtain in the back and parted the veil. Beads clacked against each other in disturbance, and Morty hesitated, peering around the stoner's body into the darkened room that pulsed with a distant phosphoric glow. 

“Aw Jeez, don’t those curtains uh, mean that whatever is behind...is like, f-for adults only?” He swallowed, and R stared at him, considering his earnest question. 

“Eh, on the Citadel, you’re only as old as you wanna be, kid. I don't feel like I'm getting any older and I’m already like half an hour behind on my wake and bake today. I don’t know what you're planning to do, but I’m planning on staying back here for a while to get high off my ass and feel some good music. So, if you wanna follow and do that too, then it’s shoes off from from here on out.”

Rick wriggled his own toes to demonstrate. “We tread with bare feet on hallowed ground.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Art Credit:** Interdimensional Rorty | Check out the Starry AU gallery of art sketches and drabbles for this fic and others on the [ Starry AU Mastadon page. ](https://fandom.ink/@left_handed_rick)
> 
> **Take Me to Church:** This fic and each chapter title was named after Hozier’s song, [_Take me to Church_](https://open.spotify.com/track/0aOluBqXYd0rFSCsgDyAWX) _,_ but the phrase was also a colloquialism in the 70’s gay community in San Francisco for giving a blowjob while on your knees.
> 
>  **On Existential Choice, Eternal Anguish & Rick Sanchez: **Satre said, “Existence precedes essence” in Existentialism is a Humanism, and this phrase became the fundamental tenet of his ideas. He elaborated on Rene Descartes’ idea of “I think therefore I am” and George Berkeley's “To be is to be perceived” saying, “I create myself through what I do, the choices I make in a world without fixed values. I am what I do. What heightens the anguish is that every sincere decision I take presents a picture of what I believe any human being should be like. In fashioning myself, I fashion humanity.”
> 
>  **Pessimism, Determinism & Free Will: **Our Rick in this story, R, finds great comfort in choosing to live a ritualistic lifestyle, believing the choice is the only thing he has control over. He later pessimistically dismisses the idea of choice to also be an illusion. This fic will explore these ideas in future chapters. R, and Ricks in general are inherently pessimistic characters. Emil Cioran, a Romanian philosopher, unflinchingly explored the philosophy of pessimism. Concerning Society, he said, _“What we want is not freedom but its appearances. It is for these simulacra that man has always striven. And since freedom, as has been said, is no more than a sensation, what difference is there between being free and believing ourselves free?”_
> 
>  **The Illusion of Having a Self:** R seems skeptical that he has an identity that is unique from his interdimensional counterparts, taking the existentialist perspective that we only ever have the illusion of having a self.
> 
>  **The Psychedelic Movement of the 60’s & Summer of Love: **R finds escapism through drug use, existing in a state of disillusionment and detachment on the Citadel. I’m playing with the idea of ["Turn on, tune in, drop out"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPSzTBP5PAU) originally a phrase popularized by Harvard professor turned acidhead and counterculture guru, Timothy Leary, in 1966 (Co-Author of [_The Psychedelic Experience: A Manual Based on the Tibetan Book of the Dead_](https://youtu.be/JhgJsg2mMeQ)). The phrase kicked off the 1967 [Summer of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2ZExRNT0GU). Leary explained it in depth in a later essay: _"Turn on" meant go within to activate your neural and genetic equipment. Become sensitive to the many and various levels of consciousness and the specific triggers that engage them. Drugs were one way to accomplish this end. "Tune in" meant interact harmoniously with the world around you – externalize, materialize, express your new internal perspectives. "Drop out" suggested an active, selective, graceful process of detachment from involuntary or unconscious commitments. "Drop Out" meant self-reliance, a discovery of one's singularity, a commitment to mobility, choice, and change._ Its contemporary use focuses more on drug use as an escape; the phrase originally focused on metaphysical ideas that challenged perceptions of reality.  
> 
>  **“We tread with bare feet on hallow ground”:** Is a reference to spiritual practices of removing shoes when walking on sacred spaces as a sign of reverence.”
> 
>  **Jay and Silent Bob:** Rick and Silent Morty are a complete nod to Jay and Silent Bob. Their conversation was [right out of this scene from Clerks II.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DucceoUPlxY) Their creator, Kevin Smith, stated that he sees Jay as ambisexual.
> 
>  **"Mostly Void, Partially Stars"** is a nod to one of my fav podcasts, [Welcome to Night Vale.](http://www.welcometonightvale.com/)
> 
> [ **Dan Harmon is a Belieber**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-TF589HRyA) and hates capitalism.
> 
>  **Absinthe DIY Bong:** Van Gogh called absinthe, "The Green Faerie of Late Madness". It was an alcohol steeped in [heavy ritualism,](https://www.absinthefever.com/green-fairy) and held rumors of causing latent insanity among creatives. Leave it to R to make a DIY bong out of it and suggest chasing rabbits with it.


	2. The Last True Mouthpiece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If there are deeper truths and meanings about our existence to be revealed, their songs would filter through the things we love._

“You ever smoked before? If you haven't I'm gonna warn you that a bong hits pretty hard, but I'm not gonna waste good shit like this on a joint.”

R led Morty into the back room, which looked like it had been curated to feel like an eclectic lounge. Morty felt his toes press into a black shaggy carpet and he caught sight of a few space-grey lovesacs and a small coffee table resting under the glow of neon green lava lamps and purple black lights.

The flat dark colors of the furniture were contrasted against the walls, which had been painted corner to corner with neon psychedelic art. It caused Morty to think of colors one would find on an alien planet. The detailed swaths of paint had a meticulous organic feel to them, and the vibrancy of the black lights falling against them made the walls look as if they were alive and breathing. He reached out to put his hand against it, just to confirm the movement was just a trick of the eye.  

“Y-yeah, I've smoked.”

R flopped onto one of the lovesacs and kicked his foot up in a half-cross-legged sit. He fished out a cutting board and layed it over his leg table before going to work on breaking up his weed. A mess of what he suspected were jizz stains littered R’s beanbag and the surrounding floor, illuminated by the black lights. He glanced to the second beanbag, thankful it looked a bit cleaner.

“Hell yeah, kid. Makin’ my job easy today. Hey, do me a favor while I pack this. Run upstairs and grab a glass of ice from my mini fridge – fill it with water too, need some water for the bong, and cottonmouth’s a bitch with this hybrid strain.”

Morty grew anxious at the request. He’d just met this Rick and he was already getting instructions to dig through his stuff on some errand. However, Morty really wanted to get high for free. He had only smoked once before, but discovered he really liked the experience. He reluctantly climbed the stairs looking for the kitchen. It was literally just a countertop with a sink, a toaster, hot water dispenser, coffee press, and a hotplate next to a small refrigerator.

Morty plucked open the door and pulled out a tiny ice cube tray as he heard R's voice rise to the second level.

“– and fill it back up, I'm gonna need more for my afternoon delight!”

Morty cracked the ice into a drinking glass and glanced around R's loft, which consisted of a room-sized platform that floated above the record store. Morty glanced off the edge of the second level, thinking it was pretty cool to see the entire store from above like this. He turned back to R’s living space. A small table and a twin size bed were set against a window that filtered the space with splotches of natural light. Morty’s lip curved upwards in slight disgust when he caught sight of the sheets. They needed to be changed. An industrial-looking metal pipe stuck out of the wall and from it hung a slew of band t-shirts and a few pants. On the floor below lay a single pair of shoes.

Home Sweet Home. The space in the apartment was built to accommodate the life of one. Morty assumed that R was living a bachelor life, without a Morty or another Rick. The room painted the image of a minimalist lifestyle: simple, easy, and lonely in the soft, uninterrupted narratives that had settled into the quiet spaces. The spaces below the platform looked much more like they were meant to be shared.

He restocked the water in the ice tray before carrying the glass back down into the eclectic chapel. R's grin spread wide as he reached into the glass to fish out a few cubes.

“Shit kid, I didn't need that many, just a couple’ll do the job... fuckin' love these tiny cubes. T–They're perfect for moisturizing the smoke, but you don't want too many or it completely kills it – I usually prefer the burn of a good wake and bake bowl – steam roller or classic glass, but I'm feeling like some more mellow hits today...also probably a bit better for your set of pink lungs.”

R raised his eyebrow at Morty, whose fingers tensed around the glass at the insinuation that he was inexperienced. The older man lifted his DIY absinthe bottle as he dropped a few cubes into the piece, before pressing the bong against the rim of Morty’s drinking glass, instructing Morty to pour half of his water into it. He gave it a test pull, and the water bubbled with a slight faerie sound. It reminded Morty of the musical note someone running a wet finger against the rim of a wine glass would make.  

“I call this baby the green percolator of late madness...ready to go chasing rabbits?”

Morty nervously lowered himself onto the second lovesac and set the glass on the floor beside him. There was a strange feeling to the room he was in. Aside from the walls that messed with his perception, the space felt as if it were pressing against his skin. He could hear his blood pulse as his heart beat against the eerie silence.  

“It feels...really quiet in here.”

“You’ve got good ears kid. I’ve acoustically treated this room. What you’re not hearing is all of that white noise in the background. It really...” R’s body started shifting around looking for something. “Really helps you turn off…shit, kid, you see a lighter anywhere? I have like fuckin’ ten of ‘em in this room. You'd think I’d be able to find one under these lights.”

Morty reached for a glowing white lighter that lay directly in front of them on the floor. He passed it over to R, who triumphantly smiled as he snatched up the object.

“Nice! That’s the real reason for installing black lights. Now, all we need are some good sounds.”

Still holding his bong steady in one hand and balancing it on his knee, R reached behind him to dig around his seat. He exclaimed as he revealed a flat glass panel and set it on top of the small table between them, before pressing his finger into the corner to activate it. A green holographic turntable flickered into the physical space, and an interface window hovered under his fingertips.

“You said you liked The Beatles, kid? I’m gonna turn you on to the sounds of the psychedelic 60’s on Peach Piss. ”

Morty considered the decade he referenced. Most Ricks would have been around their 20’s during that time.

“Did Ricks like the 60’s?”

“Well, if they can remember being in the 60’s, then they weren’t really there, kid. Not counting alcohol, that was the time most of us Ricks began really experimenting with recreational drugs. Not bad for an origin story.”

R scrolled down the digital interface of playlist options, before selecting a list item named [  “Sanchez Psychedelic/Acid Rock”. ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue/playlist/2UnhQhHz8zOvE1qFk1xSAE)

“I can’t say for other Ricks, but the psychedelic 60’s?” R trailed a low whistle. “Well… Y–you never forget your first love.”

The interface morphed into a circular record, and R placed it on the turntable key, moving the illusory needle to rest over lightwaves: grooves of holographic vinyl, as he explained the technology to the teen with a low hum.

“Trying to find the right records at the right time always fuckin’ kills my high. This baby keeps ‘em ready and waitin’ for me.”

 

_There must be some kind of way outta here_  
_Said the joker to the thief_  
_There's too much confusion_  
I can't get no relief

 

Morty listened to the music that began to fill the atmosphere of the room. He hadn’t taken his first hit yet, and he had already begun to feel his body relax. He wasn’t sure if it was R’s chill demeanor that projected an aura of relaxation, or if the general atmosphere of the room made him feel as if he’d escaped to a different planet. He studied the vibrating walls, shook his head, and leaned back into his bean bag chair, feeling his body melt into the soft shape as his head instinctively swayed and bobbed with the music.   

A light bubbling sound filtered over the music as R pulled a stream of air through the glass and  tilted his lighter into the bowl. Morty carefully watched him as he swirled the flame around the lip in small circles as a bright blue dot began to glow in the center. Orange smoke began moving through the water bubbles as they percolated into the glass chamber. R lifted the stem and inhaled the orange smoke that had built. He sat up straight and silently passed the bong to Morty.   

Morty cautiously took the bong and mimicked R’s movements, reaching for the lighter. R swatted his hand away and coughed out an orange exhale. It smelled like peaches and cream.

“I–It’s rollin’. Hit it _–cough–_ fast and you won’t need to light it again. A–and don’t fuckin’ hog the bowl and rip it tryin’ to– tryin’ to prove you’re hot shit or something.”  

Morty anchored the bong firmly between his legs, before hesitating as R instructed him to use his dominant hand to control the stem, and his other to hold the glass at a slight angle. After a moment of failing to communicate the instructions properly, R rolled his eyes and crawled over to kneel beside Morty, repositioning his hands for him. Morty nervously swallowed at the contact as his hands shook with anticipation. R reluctantly re-lit the bowl and instructed Morty to begin pulling air.

Morty’s anxiety bubbled as he took a few quick breaths. He pressed his lips to the mouthpiece and slowly inhaled. The smoke had already filled a small portion of the chamber from R’s draw, and he felt the cool stream of smoke begin to flow into his airways. After a moment, he picked up his breath and lifted the stem just as he had carefully watched the veteran smoker do, but he was unprepared for the sharp intake of air as it forced its way, heavy, into his chest with a cold burn. He felt his body violently heave forward as he coughed himself out, nearly throwing the bong.

R jumped forward to catch the glass before Morty could drop or spill its contents. He plucked the stem from the teen’s hands and replaced it with the glass of water, watching as Morty’s body shook with heavy coughs.

“Nice,” he joked towards Morty, who was busy trying to catch a full breath while sputtering out apologies. R continued to tease him.

“What the hell was that, kid? I thought you said you’d smoked before?”

“Not _–cough–_ out of whatever–” Morty gestured towards the DIY bong, setting the glass of water on the floor to avoid spilling it as his body continued to convulse. “Whatever that thing is! Only a joint _–cough–_ once.”

R set his bong on the table and rolled his eyes with a smirk. He patted Morty’s back, forcing some more coughs out of him. Morty leaned forward with his head between his legs. His eyes had started to water from feeling his lungs painfully burn in his chest. He blinked back tears, feeling slightly nauseous. This was supposed to be a mellow hit? He continued to catch his breath as R laughed at him.

“Okay, I’m gonna come clean. I think anyone could have seen that was your first bong hit, but you fuckin’ went for it – I wanted you to see you give it your best. Fuck if it wasn’t worth the wasted bud.”

R knelt back onto his bare heels, suppressing a laugh as he encouragingly rubbed Morty’s back to cheer him up.

“Let that be a lesson to you...first rule of using drugs, kid. Don’t lie about your experience – it’ll only get you into trouble. Now, you still wanna get high, or what?”   

Morty sat back up, feeling a bit lightheaded. He wasn’t sure if it was from a general lack of air or if he was such a lightweight that a half-assed bong hit was enough for him.

“I think...it’s too strong for me, maybe?”

“Your call kid, but you didn’t have that smoke in your lungs for more than a second. Your brain probably just short-circuited over the lack of oxygen from your coughing fit.”

Morty considered his options for a moment before reaching for the glass of water, needing to feel something on his throat that wasn’t scorching pain.   

“Can we wait a minute? Y’know...catch my breath?” Morty swallowed, “I don’t know if I can handle all that smoke in one breath.”

“Heh, you didn’t have to clear the fuckin’ chamber kid...how about a shotgun?”

Morty considered R’s advice about lying about his experience. He didn’t know what a shotgun was, but it sounded dangerous.

“Is it safer than what I just–”

“It doesn’t hit you as hard, if that’s what you're asking. It’s a second pass of smoke, and because your mouth is the carb, you have a lot more control over it – you just stop breathing in when you hit your limit, and I don’t have to waste any more smoke.”

Morty ran his hand across the back of his neck. That sounded much closer to the joint he’d smoked before, and already sounded more appealing than trying the bong again.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s try that.”

“Need a few more minutes?”

“No. I’m ready.”

Morty decided to go for it before he backed out. R seemed like the kind of Rick who would be okay with wasted weed if it accomplished something, but wouldn’t be too happy if he had wasted it all for naught. Morty gulped and nodded to R, who picked up the bong and smiled as he flicked the lighter to life.

“Heh, you really go after it kid. Okay! Round two, light my fire, baby!”

Just as before, R percolated the bong to life. The faint fairy whistle rang out as he pulled and  waited for the smoke to build in the chamber. Again, he pulled the stem and cleared the orange smoke. He quickly set the piece down and leaned over Morty, anchoring a hand behind him on the lovesac. The other tenderly cupped the side of the boy’s face.

Morty’s face flushed and tensed at the gentle touch as he felt the older man lean into his personal space. His eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for escape as he began to panic at the sudden closeness. He tried to pull away but the beanbag his body had fused with held him firmly in place. Their eyes met as Morty’s eyes blew wide with a questioning panic.

“Y–You’re trying to kiss me!?”

R hit his limit at hearing the words and laughed out a trail of peach smoke across Morty’s face with a snicker.

“No! I’m shotgunning you, kid! You – what did I just fuckin’ tell you about lying about your experience.”

R’s expression fell into a serious frown. Hazy blue eyes studied Morty as his hand moved to pinch his chin. R traced his thumb across the line of the teen’s mouth before pressing it into the plump flesh of his bottom lip. Morty nervously drew his eyes down towards R’s hands, as he felt the scrub of the rough digit drag across sensitive muscle. R's voice hummed, low and husky from the smoke.  

“...gonna get you into a shit-ton of trouble, kid.”

R’s expression teasingly broke back into a laugh as he shook Morty’s head at the chin and released the teen from his grip. Morty escaped from the clutches of the beanbag as he crawled away to sit on the floor, his limbs a bit wobbly from R’s intimidation tactics, regretting his lack of honesty. R was laughing in full as he slapped his hand on the carpet fringes and joined him.

“I’m gonna get so fucking high just trying to get you high, kid.”  

R reached for the glass of water and took a swig before continuing to tease Morty.

“I think I would have saved on weed rolling you a joint by now!”

Morty huffed a puff of clean air. He definitely wasn’t high, because that joke probably would have been funnier if he were. He folded his arms and resigned. The jig was up.

“Fine! I don’t know what a shotgun is. But you said it was easier!’ Morty exclaimed, accusing R of being the one at fault.

“Shit, Morty, I need a short break before we try that again. I fuckin’ ripped it because I thought we were shotgunning it.”

R turned to his side on the black carpet so that he could face the still-flustered teen.

“How about I help make you into one of the cool kids while we wait. No judgement for the next...ten or so minutes before we attempt round three. Ask me any burning questions you have about this stuff, and I’ll tell you what I know so you can stop lying to me about it and I can fuckin’ get you high.”

He ended with another snickering laugh. Morty’s lips pursed at the thought. He had a free pass to ask him anything.

“So, you weren’t trying to kiss me. Just then?” The words defensively fell out of his mouth before he could take them back. He was supposed to be asking R how to use a bong, not about the smouldering gaze that had just burnt a hole into his chest.

“You can kiss with a shotgun...good seal...keeps smoke from escaping, but I wasn’t planning on kissing you, kid. I was just trying to give you more control.”

“Oh...” Morty regretted that he sounded slightly disappointed at the answer.

“...How does a shotgun work?”

“Simple. I blow out smoke, and you breathe it in. S’why I suggested it… Gotta get close for it to work though.” R lazily swirled his hands around the air with the half-assed explanation. “What else you got for me?”

“Do you smoke a lot of weed?”

R just heartily laughed at the question. Morty caught himself enjoying the sound as he realized how nice hearing a Rick laugh felt. Ricks generally didn't laugh, at least not in earnest. Being allowed the sound felt strangely intimate. It was like hearing a piece of music he instantly responded to. He listened to the sounds of the spinning record and R’s laugh move around him, and felt his inner frustrations with himself recede. He really liked hanging out with R in his weird room, and he didn’t want his inability to get high to ruin his chance of coming back. Morty chewed the question on his lip before asking it with a nervous tone.

“If I mess up round three, can I still come back here?”

R’s laugh fell silent as he pushed himself off the floor, propping himself on his elbows so that he could squint over at the teen in an attempt to read the emotion on Morty’s expression. He sat up into a cross legged position.

“Sure kid, but you’re not gonna mess up round three.”

R reached out to ruffle Morty’s hair before sliding the bong across the table toward them. He set it between his legs and looked at Morty with an ambitious smile.

“Okay. One good hit is all you need kid, and you’ll be flyin’ high...ready?”

Morty sat up on the carpet, mentally preparing himself for the unavoidable closeness. R slid closer to him until their knees brushed up against each other. He gave an encouraging pat on Morty’s thigh before plucking off the rose-tinted glasses from his nose and setting them on the table with the rest of the paraphernalia.   

“Okay, third time’s the charm. Just remember to breathe.”

R lit up and bubbled the bong to take another deep hit. He set the equipment down and returned to face Morty, leaning forward and wrapping the fingers of one hand behind Morty’s neck to pull him closer. His other hand gently returned to the side of Mortys cheek as it had done before. Morty felt the calloused fingertips drag against his skin and tensed with nervous anticipation. He squinted his eyes to a close and instinctively reached out to fist the fabric of R’s shirt – holding him in place and pulling him closer simultaneously.

_Remember to breathe._

While Morty’s eyes had been closed R had pulled their faces towards each other, and they rested inches apart from one another. Morty took a deep breath, and fluttered his eyes open to meet R’s staring back into his. The penetrating stare of his cloudy ice blue eyes burned with a smooth chill as if the older man himself was a deep pull of the liquid smoke. A gentleness burned behind them that Morty was only made aware of as their eyes intimately rested moments apart from each other. He was patiently waiting for Morty to give some sort of signal before releasing his breath. Morty gripped R’s shirt tighter and gave a slight nod, remembering to breathe.

R tilted their heads and slowly began to exhale. Morty felt the hot humidity of the older man’s breath trickle against his lips as he caught the stream of orange smoke, matching R’s speed. His eyes caught R’s in a questioning glance, and the man had to hold back a smile of encouragement to maintain the shotgun. Morty caught the corners of his eyes curving upwards with a soft playfulness, and his heart beat with an exhilarated high as he realized that he wasn’t messing it up.

He was so caught up in concentrating on catching the flow of the smoke that he hadn’t realized he had inhaled everything until R’s lips met in a smile and softly spoke to him.

“Nice, hold it as long as you can.”    

Morty held his breath and resisted the slight burn that settled into his chest and throat. He fought the natural motions of wanting to cough. R’s fingers tensed against the back of his neck to keep Morty focused on his voice, which softly rasped with a tone of praise.

“That’s right, hold it baby...hold it all in...”

Morty’s eyes watered as he looked at R for guidance. How long was he supposed to hold his breath? Morty tugged on R’s clothing, pulling it in every direction as he fought his body’s self-preserving desire to not hold smoke in his vital organs. He whimpered and shot a panicked look at R as he felt the quick build up of tension pressing against his chest. It pushed against the openings of his airways searching for release. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold it. R caressed his thumb against Morty’s cheek with a smirk, before releasing his other hand from behind the teen’s neck.  

“Mmmm. Let it out, kid, you did great.”

 

 

Morty immediately coughed out chunks of pink smoke, wondering how R could so effortlessly hold and release it in the slow stream necessary to pull off a shotgun. He felt his tongue swirl around the edges of his mouth in attempt get rid of the dry sensation, and discovered that the smoke oils left on his tongue tasted like peach. Artificial or not, he was grateful for the flavor. The single joint Morty had the experience of smoking smelled as awful as the burnt weeds it tasted like, and while Morty liked feeling high, he approached tasting the smoke residue with the mindset of it being a necessary evil.

R pointed to the exhaled smoke, shaking Morty’s shoulder with an excited smile.  

“Ho~ly shit, Morty! Check that out! I’ve been smoking this shit for months and didn’t know shotgunning it changed the fuckin’ colors! It’s some kind of Crimson and Clover hybrid-haze shit. Fuck me, this is a good bud.”

R and Morty sat for a moment and watched the two colors of the smoke swirl above them in a gaseous dance. R glanced at Morty with satisfied grin, before moving his bong to a safer spot off the floor. He hovered over his turntable and re-adjusted the needle with a glance to Morty.

“H–How you feeling over there kid? Starting to fly? Seeing stars?”

“Mmmmm...maybe. Feeling...I dunno, but I’m feeling pretty darn good.”

“I’m restarting the playlist, Morty, so lay on the carpet and really fuckin’ feel this shit run through you. That was – that was the whole point of this little exercise if you remember, but I had to teach you how to get high so we lost like 10 songs...gotta go back.”

The music picked back up, and Morty swayed to the newly familiar song.

 

 

 _It's getting near dawn,_  
_When lights close their tired eyes_  
_I'll soon be with you my love,_  
_To give you my dawn surprise_

 _I'll be with you darling soon,_  
_I'll be with you when the stars start falling_  
_I've been waiting so long_  
_To be where I'm going_  
_In the sunshine of your love_

 

Morty had heard R talking but didn’t fully hear what he was saying. He felt a slight tingle begin to creep up the back of his neck and felt himself open and close his jaw for an unexplainable reason, other than a sudden acute awareness and fascination with the mechanics of his jaw muscle. His eyes felt heavy-lidded and tired, but his skull felt as if his brain were getting a really good mental massage while he listened to the beats of the music and R’s baritone voice reverberating through his consciousness.

He lay on his back, running his fingers through chunky fringes of the shaggy carpet, surprised that he was feeling the effects so quickly and so intensely. How had R been able to maintain a consistent train of thought after taking three hits in such quick succession?

“Mmm...Hey Rick?”

Morty made no attempt to move. Instead, he spoke into the space that surrounded them, allowing his voice to find its way to the other’s presence. He registered the sound of a voice returning to him as it echoed back across the empty space. R was laying on the carpet next to him, but it felt as if they were floating on an ocean, miles apart from one another.

“Yeah? What’s up kid?”

“I uh…” Morty had forgotten what he wanted to say. It seemed like it was really important. He exhausted himself exerting the mental effort against the high, trying to remember. He exhaled a contented sigh.

“I uh...forgot.”

“You’re so fuckin’ high right now...lightweight.”

Another snicker, followed by the feeling of his shoulder being pushed. Morty felt the room sway with the motion of his body being unexpectedly rocked. He nervously swallowed as he felt like he was beginning to float away into a seemingly endless orange ocean of uncharted waters – that distinctively smelled of delicious peaches and cream. The feeling of panic won out over his appetite, though, and he took a deep breath and began nervously attempting to turn his head to find R. He cried out for the distant person with an anxious voice.

“Rick, I think...I think I’m scared...of getting lost in here. This room’s freaking me out.”  

“Shhh...it’s alright.”  

Morty felt R reach across the space and rest his palm against the teen’s. Morty instinctively threaded his fingers through R’s as he tightly held on to the lifeline, afraid to let go. R chuckled and gave Morty’s hand a tight, reassuring squeeze before returning the steady grip.

“Not going anywhere...I’m right here.”

Morty felt anchored by the weight of R’s hand and allowed himself to ebb back into the feeling of relaxation again. He squeezed R’s hand, returning the gesture in silent thanks as he stared at the psychedelic ceiling painted with stars and moonbeams. He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Time and space felt different in the small room. Morty felt as if its surreal passing had trickled into a complete stop.

Maybe that was the whole point of the ethereal experience R had called “Church”. He eventually felt his thoughts slow with his sense of time, and allowed himself to gently close his heavy eyes and rest his face on the carpet. As he dozed off he continued to hold onto the anchoring presence of the man laying next to him.

It was that feeling which lulled him into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Art Credit:** NaughtyOrganic | Check out the Starry AU art gallery on Mastadon to see more art and drabbles related to this fic. 
> 
>  **R Describes the Summer of Love (1967) as his “First Love”:** Kicked off on July 16-18th at the Monterey International Pop Festival in 1967, and ending with the iconic Woodstock on August 14th -17th. In this story, and in my general headcanons for Rick Sanchez, R attended the Summer of Love in his early 20’s, and that was where he began to experiment with drugs and to develop a distaste for authority and government. Nearly all of the songs that will make an appearance in this fic were released during the peak of the psychedelic movement (1967-1971), with a special focus on this year. 
> 
> **Church, Religion, Worship, Sexuality, and Psychedelia:** R calls his smoke room “Church”, playing with ideas of truth, spirituality, religion and worship. Ideas of spiritualism, subverting it and challenging the existing ideas surrounding it, were a huge part of the psychedelic movement. We will see this theme play out more through the story, and the song selections. 
> 
> R often speaks in phrases, and has actions, that carry double meaning or are sensually/sexually charged. Psychedelia heavily explored sexuality and the nature of reality in a way that defined the psychedelic movement of the 60s. My headcannon is that the Summer of Love was the most influential time in his life, and as a result, R, is a living embodiment of the ideas. 
> 
> **Light My Fire (1967):** Inspired by Rolling Stones “Play With Fire”. It conflates the passion of love with the idea of fire, specifically relating it to a ”funeral pyre”. The image evokes spirituality and ancient mythology, as well as death, one of Jim Morrison's favorite topics. Fire is a big theme in this fic. 
> 
> **Drug use and the Doors of Perception:** Ideas of perception, perspective, and subjectivity are big themes in this fic. While drug use is the most obvious theme, this fic will explore it in other ways as well. 
> 
> **The Doors’ (Band)** name was taken from Aldous Huxley’s _The Doors of Perception_ (1954), which documented his experience taking a dosage of Mescaline, a form of LSD, for scientific research (Mescaline is the principal active psychedelic agent in the peyote cacti). The name of the book was inspired by William Blake's 1793 romantic era poem The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
> 
>  _“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern”_
> 
> Blake's theory of contraries was not a belief in opposites but rather a belief that each person reflects the contradictory nature of God, and that progression in life is impossible without contraries. 
> 
> **All Along the Watchtower (1967)** suggests that escape is found through discovering your role in the larger story – understanding the machinations of the reality in which you exist. For R, this can only be achieved through self-aware analysis and mind-altering substances. 
> 
> Although this song was originally written and recorded by Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, who greatly idolized Dylan, released this cover six months later. Structurally, what makes this song unique is the circular narrative. The last verse begins the story again, manipulating the sense of time in a never-ending loop. R applies this theme of being trapped in a circular narrative to his own life on the Citadel, seeing weed, music, and ritual as his forms of escape. 
> 
> Many suspect it is a biblical reference to the book of Isaiah, which references the Tower of Babylon falling. The Tower of Babel (babel meaning confusion) is an origin myth meant to explain why the world's peoples speak different languages and are divided. 
> 
> **Sunshine of your Love (1967)** The references to stars falling is a nod to Jimi Hendrix’s “Love or Confusion”. Eric Clapton told Rolling Stone Magazine, “It was strictly a dedication to Jimi. And then we wrote a song on top of it.” 
> 
> Jimi Hendrix’s first gig, before he had formed his band, the Jimi Hendrix Experience, was when he spontaneously joined Cream for a jam at the Regent Street Polytechnic in central London. Meeting Clapton had been among the enticements used by his manager, Chas Chandler, Bassist for The Animals (House of the Rising Sun) to bring Hendrix to London. Jimi was highly flattered by, and loved, Sunshine of Your Love, and often sang a cover of it during his live shows. 
> 
> Figurative sunshine, or the experience one has while under the influence, represent a form of freedom to R. And psychedelia is a love he always returns to and nostalgically yearns for. Recreational drug use is an escape that he happily returns to.


	3. Knows Everybody's Dissaproval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Whatever ancient philosopher suggested the ultimate truth was to “Know Thyself” clearly never lived with their infinite selves._

_The Infinite Rick is a study in recursion._

R lay naked in his bedsheets, lazily pumping a hand over his erection, considering the greater questions about his existence that unavoidably rose, daily, with his consciousness and his morning wood.

In less reaching terms, Rick Sanchez had stared into the infinite abyss until he found himself, in infinite iterations, staring back. It was the kind of existential gaze that reduced every Rick to a nothingness in their own mind, mercilessly stripping away any stabilizing assumptions a Rick held about his particular assemblage of quarks in time-space.

Like most Ricks, it was here where the ever present dark euphoria of R’s thoughts resided, which was, in literal terms, absolute chaos. The ensuing angst was a type of anxiety that arose in response to nothing in particular; the sense of nothingness itself.

True to the architectural fortress it was named after, the Citadel existed as a self-aggrandizing monolith of order and structure, erected by Ricks as a giant phallic middle finger against the void of meaninglessness, and that sense of self-centeredness formed the axis on which Citadel society rotated, but it had always more-or-less been a Rick’s default setting: a hardwired attitude of lethargic disappointment, listlessness, and self-hatred.  

He tightened his grip on himself, quickening his pace.

If everything a Rick was could be surmised by the things he did, then the concept that every Rick worshiped described the insidious cancer of Ricks, attempting to re-establish some sort of meaning in their lives through banal platitude. Worship described their preoccupation with the fundamental emptiness of their own existence.

Ultimately, Ricks worshiped what they most feared, which, despite recursive iterations approaching infinity, was themselves. The thing they most feared, in turn, consumed them. It was a recipe for a ritualized and fetishised self-loathing that cut so deep, the collective insult of choice was “Fuck Me”.

R panted out a rhythm of heady breaths as he thrust into his hand, feeling his particular ritual of morning prayer tremble in his grasp. He thumbed his sensitive tip before slipping the foreskin back, allowing his fingers to repeatedly, gently slip over the end of his shaft with a feather-light squeeze. He tossed his head back into his pillow, letting a loud moan escape from his lips.

 

The vapid mouthpiece of an impersonal cosmic force.

The paradox of _The Infinite Rick, was_  that stripping Ricks of any sense of identity ensured that their essence never really changed. Even deeper down, Ricks remained selfish assholes caught in the centrifuge of an infinite circle jerk at the black hole of their collective being.

Ricks hated themselves.

R hated Ricks.

Logically, he didn't see much difference between the two as he worshiped himself to salvation.

“Fuck Me!”

He gave a breathy exhale in satisfaction as he felt himself tighten, then come at the words. With a satisfied humh he aimlessly wiped his hands on the sheets and pushed himself out of bed.

It was time to make breakfast.

R sipped his coffee and steadily ate, readying himself to open shop for the day and eager to light up his wake and bake. He really fuckin’ needed to slow his already racing thoughts. While most Ricks tended to drown their thoughts in alcohol, R chose to remain perpetually high so he could at least enjoy the act of turning off – but the caveat of truly not having to think about something was that it required a genius’ amount of forethought to pull off.

 

10:00 a.m. - Wake and Bake  
12:00 pm  - High Noon  
2:00 p.m.  - Afternoon Delight  
4:20 p.m.  - 4:20 Happy Hour  
6:00 p.m.  - Evening Delight  
8:00 p.m.  - Wind Down  
10:00 p.m.  - Bedtime Bowl

 

R had a fixation with the physicality of time. Specifically, he held an idolatrous ovbsession surrounding the idea of choice within an unfolding linear existence. More specifically, the song of his particular muse consumed him at the idea that each choice affected every choice following, and over time, would inescapably set a trajectory where he would ultimately realize himself as a slight variation of the same inevitable fuck up of society. (It didn't take an omnitemporal being to see that inevitability.)

Alcohol, inherently, couldn't take the edge from that particular brand of self-determination, at least not in the same way weed's time-dialating sensory effects could. 

He'd played with the idea on paper, and had eventually installed an illegal as fuck time rig in Church to calibrate Earth, but even as he'd been able to manipulate everything around him, there was only one way to stop the tempo of his beating heart. 

He determined to go to Church, and serve out his life sentence in the glorified hospice. 

 

_Don't think about it._

 

Inevitably, R worshiped the ritual itself. And like most Ricks, he convinced himself that his version of finding meaning was the exception to the rule.

R chose his schedule, his things, his lifestyle, his single letter name – he could have probably chosen to leave the Citadel if he really, truly wanted to, but in the end, he chose to tell himself that he really had made the choice to stay.

_Poco a poquillo... and little by little, the bird builds its nest._

For most Ricks, the only truly unapproachable concept was that of choice: the idea that, even in the face of a harrowing existence, there still existed a sentient mind which remained in their individual control. All Ricks were geniuses, and so it wasn't so much about his capacity to think as it was about exercising a form of control over an intentionally subjective choice of _what to think about_.

For R, the ultimate expression of this was to occasionally make a self-aware choice that would break him free of the default gravitational orbit of being deeply and literally self-centered on the Citadel, and yesterday, he had done just that thanks to a Morty with crimson hair who interrupted his morning with the subtlety of an asteroid collision.

_What a fucking mistake that turned out to be…_

In the end R was only poignantly reminded that he was not an exception. He was just like every other Rick– too self-interested where it really mattered and, deep down, he didn’t really want any aspect of his life to change course, even for a single day.

He selfishly preferred the predictability of the quiet unchanging routine that had consumed him. It was all he had.

He trekked barefoot down the stairs, mug in hand, and reached out to unlock his store for the start of a more familiar day than the last. He sighed, feeling himself relax at the thought as he stepped outside and lifted an open palm in the minimal gesture to greet one such comfort.

R had a fondness for Rick and Silent Morty. The duo never seemed to change, and there was something deeply satisfying in the way he poked his head out the front door each morning to find them exactly as he expected. Today, they were discussing an iteration of yesterday's conversation, somewhere in the same headspace of self-hatred that R had woken to. _Great minds think alike_ he supposed – he didn’t have the patience to wait for a pause in their conversation today.   

“–Hey, got any of that Blue Sanchez Dream? I-I need a gentle wake and bake today – something that’ll help me relax. Been thinking too loud.”

R took the day’s pick behind his counter and toked an over-packed bowl with his steam roller, holding the familiar burn in his chest a few seconds too long with the intent to kill just a few more brain cells. He slowly exhaled, feeling himself settle into the relaxing embrace of his daily routine.

 

*******

**2:00 p.m. –** **Afternoon Delight**

For the second day in a row, R’s day had been presented with a wild card of choice.

If R’s life was defined by predetermined predictability, then the Morty who had returned to silently browse through the store’s music collection might as well have been a figurative bull quietly parading through the china shop of R’s life – crashing down the illusions of control R had so meticulously crafted, all while wearing a beautifully soft and wholly unaware smile.

He watched the boy walk through the front door as a feeling of deep-seated unease pooled in the pit of his stomach over the imminent event which held a multiverse of uncertain potential. R wasn't sure if he was feeling the effects of anxiety or describing chaos theory in practice, but playing with a toothpick in his mouth was no longer enough to distract himself.

He set his body in motion and moved around the store, organizing records, pretending to be busy, hoping Morty would get the hint of his asshole-ish avoidance tactics and leave, but two hours later Morty was still browsing through the spaces of the shop, enjoying himself.

Still distracted despite his best efforts, R found himself following the puff of crimson hair from his peripherals, before his eyes fully diverted to take in a secret fleeting moment.

 

_Come as you are, as you were_  
_As I want you to be_  
_As a friend, as a friend_  
As an known enemy

 

Light had fallen in through the storefront windows in thick streaks that danced across Morty’s body as he gently swayed to the music softly playing on the store's speakers. His lips fluttered unspoken words in sync with the lyrics as he closed his eyes, allowing himself to completely slip into the feeling of the song and a moment that, however small, was his alone.

It was a clandestine moment of self, quietly lit from within.

Objectively, there wasn't anything special about the short-lived moment. It was the very picture of mundanity... But there lived something almost poetic within its transience that R couldn't fully place. He hadn’t seen just another Morty occupying space on the Citadel – he wasn't sure what he had witnessed, but it had set fire to his being in an absolute expression of everything R had allowed himself to get caught up in during the previous day when he had invited the redhead to Church.

R quickly turned his gaze away before he could admit to himself how much he enjoyed vicariously existing in such a private moment with the teen.

He really hadn’t fuckin' thought about it when he made the choice, on a whim, to invite the kid with rose-tinted glasses to join him in Church, deciding with irrational self-interest that he had just really fuckin’ wanted to smoke with the farthest someone from himself he could find on the Citadel. Which, for all intents and purposes was a Morty.

It’d felt like a good call, initially. Morty's presence elevated the music and the weed in a way that R hadn’t been able to experience in a long while, but after R had promised the kid he wouldn't let go of his hand, his high as fuck stoner logic had caused him to continue to lay beside Morty and watch him sleep off what looked like the best fucking nap of the kid's life for the next three hours – until R had come down from his own high and become too anxious to remain still any longer.

He’d panicked at the first stirrings of attraction, strong enough to be budding fixation, and nudged the boy awake, giving the excuse that he was closing up shop and it was time for Morty to leave. R had all but pushed him out the front door in broad daylight, throwing his shoes after him, before engaging the lock behind him in the clearest form of communication he could ever give.

The schedule conflict had caused him to close shop 4 hours early and retreat back into his sanctuary to smoke through the remainder of his stash on the verge of a nerv–  

_Don't think about it._

He really hadn’t fuckin' thought about it when he’d made an error in snap judgement regarding Morty. But he wouldn't make the same mistake today.

He had a sneaking suspicion that Morty had returned hoping R would invite him to Church again. After all, R _had_ chosen to tell him that he could come back, indirectly. Hypothetically. Because he didn’t mess up the third attempt at the shotgun, and that logic had seemed sound enough after double hitting his hardest hitting bong.

Morty eventually worked himself up to making his way to the counter and attempted to strike up a hesitant but friendly conversation about the Beatles.

“So uh...What’s your favorite Beatles album?”

R continued to watch Morty as he silently twirled a toothpick in his mouth. Morty continued to speak, answering his own question to keep the conversation going.

“I really like _Revolver,_ because, well it uh, it sounds like that music you showed me yesterday.”

“Pff, yeah, all two songs before you crashed on my carpet.”  

R’s voice had an unintended edge of confrontation. If he made the choice to smoke Morty out again this would undoubtedly become some sort of a thing. The kid showing up at the shop for a second time had already felt like it had become one – and while he understood that this wasn't Morty's fault, it did not stop R’s unfair, and admittedly petty, frustration towards the kid from growing as he was forced to deal with the consequences of his previous choices – one of which was resigning himself to the idea that today was also not going to be just another normal day for him.

Morty gestured his hands as he continued to speak, and R watched the motion with a practiced expression that feigned mild interest, but he hadn't been fully listening for some time. His thoughts were distracting him.

Fuck. He really didn't want to think about this.

R pulled out his steam roller to relight the already half-ashed bowl, pointedly not offering to share, but Morty didn't seem to mind as he continued to recite the various things he had learned about music in the span of the last 20 hours since they'd seen each other (not thatthed been counting). he continued to passively listen before interrupting with a curse as he tilted the bowl of ash into his open palm.

“Fuck, I’m already out – It’s not even 4:20.”  

R rounded the counter and stepped out of his storefront, making a beeline to Rick and Silent Morty. He pushed his head through the glass door to the sound of an urgent ring.

“Hey uh, I already burned through my stash, you got any more?”

Rick nervously looked at his silent partner. The unexpected change in R’s routine had caught them both off guard. Yeah, he could fucking relate.

“Aw shit, sorry man, we just sold our last eighth of quality kush. All that’s left in the bag is some Earth weed.”

R exhaled a slow controlled breath. Earth weed was still better than scraping resin.

He snatched a large bag from Silent Morty’s hands before heading back into the record store, walking around the kid who had not only followed him, but was now standing in his regular path. He growled out a huff in irritation and tossed the bag on the counter, actively ignoring the brain functions in the back of his mind telling him that Morty seemed upset about something. He didn’t want to exert the extra thought trying to figure out why; he'd already been trying to avoid thinking about him.

“Hey Rick, I don't know if you wanna talk about it cause uh, you haven't said anything... But I uh, I’ve been meaning to – well I wanna tell you something.”

“They never run out of my shit! Even when I smoke through my stash!”

R spoke his thoughts aloud, more to himself than Morty as he paced behind the counter looking for his shit-product pipe. It had been a while since he had needed to use it. He sank beneath the laminate, digging through shelves to find it buried in the furthest corners of his paraphernalia: the small wooden box of his original stoner kit. That’s how long it had been since he had smoked Earth weed – since he’d been on Earth.

R pulled himself out from the under the counter to find that a small ziplock bag of bioluminescent bud had been set on the surface. It was a saturated cobalt blue plant, with glowing yellow flower buds. Tiny wisps of fuzzy white hairs softened the edges, and the surface held a sheen of stickiness that could only signal quality. Rick drooled at the sight of the perfect trees, before glancing up to Morty.

The teen stared at the ground, avoiding R’s gaze, his whole frame weighed heavy with a defeated aura, far from the person who had been previously enjoying the music in his store.        

“I..I’m really sorry for messing things up yesterday. I uh… I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

R had to force his own thoughts to pause before he could fully focus on the words that had just come from the kid’s mouth. After being kicked to the curb, Morty thought R was upset with him for falling asleep and wasting good weed, so he had brought a bouquet of bud in apology.

Although Morty had interrupted R’s life in another, wholly unrelated way – _that bud was definitely snaked from Rick and Silent Morty’s bag_ – R couldn’t help but feel appreciative of the underlying gesture.

Even though Morty’s motivation was misplaced guilt, R couldn’t remember the last time someone had acted in such a selfless way on his behalf. It did something to him – reminded him of songs when he failed to find the words to describe the nuanced emotions that such a thoughtful action had gently stirred to life.

Before R could respond, the boy quietly turned to leave, granting R’s wish.

R watched him for a few moments, internally conflicted, understanding that, if he chose to let Morty walk out of the store in this moment, then he would simultaneously exit R’s life. Everything could return to normal at the cost of R subjectively being a selfish asshole in allowing Morty to shoulder an imagined blame.

But that was every Rick. If Morty had expected R to be any different, then he really did only have himself to blame.

R growled at himself in frustration as he rose to chase after the teen, catching his arm just as he was about to reach for the door.

R hated Ricks.

Ricks hated themselves.

Reluctantly, R made a choice.

“What the hell are you talking about, kid? You fuckin’ nailed that shotgun. Falling asleep is a classic for first-timers like you.”

Morty turned to look at R, bravely holding back a wave of emotion. R bit his tongue as he took in the expression which had shown him the asshole he nearly allowed himself to be, before releasing Morty’s arm, and letting it fall.

“So you’re not...mad at me?”

In terms of predictability, R’s next choice felt like the equivalent of rolling a pair of dice into a black hole.

“I-I'm just having an off day today – but look, It’s almost 4:20. Since you matched with some good shit, wanna smoke me out in Church?”

R watched a smile bloom across Morty’s face as he rationalized that this was still a choice motivated by self-interest – the high had been so fucking good in his presence that he had spent most of today unsuccessfully chasing the afterglow it had left.

Smoking with this kid made him feel like he could truly turn on, tune in, and drop out.

He really fuckin’ wanted to feel like that again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More on Existentialist Choice:** In the Pickle Rick episode, Dr. Wong discusses the idea of choice, taking a very French existentialist perspective. Summarizing it with a statement of living simply being a type of maintenance that some people are willing to show up to do the work for, while others are not.  
> 
> Sartre, a French existentialist who heavily explored the idea of choice, reached the conclusion that we are “condemned to be free” or, in other words, we are thrown into existence, become aware of ourselves, and have to make choices.
> 
> R attempts to separate himself from other Ricks, and create some sort of meaningful experience in his life through self-aware ritualistic choice. Sartre and Simone De Beauvoir similarly suggested that the choice itself was the only meaningful thing that an existence could offer; however, the ambiguity of having choice was what caused endless anguish. They optimistically explored the beauty and meaning that could be created by exercising the choice itself.
> 
>  **Slow Dance With The Absurd** Another French existentialist, Albert Camus encouraged people to [ slow dance with the absurd, ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vYXPzbT46BQ) and to laugh at meaninglessness. On exercising choice, his perspective was, "Kill yourself or have a cup of coffee, it doesn't matter either way.” What sounds pessimistic at first glance, offers an optimistic perspective, which is "The meaning of life is whatever keeps you from killing yourself - so you can find the meaning of life in anything." Thus, even the innocuous act of drinking coffee is an affirmation that life is worth living. Similarly, for Ricks living on the Citadel, that meaning is what R describes as their various forms of worship. Ricks embrace a "don't think about it" life of hedonistic excess, and I headcannon that Rick’s entire "Wubba lubba dub dub!" mentality reflects this idea, and is a kind of satiric scream into the abyss.
> 
>  **Cioran on Worship, Ricks Living on in the Citadel:** R, and Ricks in general, are inherently pessimistic. Emil Cioran, a Romanian philosopher, unflinchingly explored the philosophy of pessimism. Concerning religion, Cioran said, “Let us speak plainly: everything which keeps us from self-dissolution, every lie which protects us against our unbreathable certitudes is religious.” R believes that every Rick worships by telling themselves “Don’t think about it”. I’m playing with this idea, using R to explore it with Sartre's notion of the existential choice.
> 
>  **Gaze Into The Abyss:** “And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.” is a popular quote by Friedrich Nietzsche from Beyond Good and Evil, that reflects many of his ideas surrounding Nihilism. Nihilism, another, more pessimistic exploration of existentialism. According to Nietzsche, it was never meant to be a place of permanence, but a threshold to cross. R is continuously forced to confront the abyss living with his infinite selves on the Citadel. Even while attempting to create meaning, he has a very pessimistic stance toward his efforts. My headcannon is that most Ricks inherently have these thoughts, but R makes a deliberate choice to be more self aware about them, and as a result, is unable to find relief from them outside of Church and his recreational escapism (Playing into the very patterns of worship that he harshly judges other Ricks for participating in.)
> 
>  **Come As You Are:** A song seemingly about acceptance and leveraging the popular religious theme/colloquialism, according to Cobain, was a song about contradiction: “About people and what they are expected to act like.” Cobain used the same effects pedal on his guitar that he used on Smells Like Teen Spirit to produce the "trippy, psychedelic, watery effect.”
> 
>  **“Fuck Me”:** I love that Ricks say “Fuck Me” to each other. Sexualized statement and self-loathing all in one. A big theme in TMTC is exploring Rick’s self hatred and destructive habits, and how these aspects of himself have affected the Citadel society as a whole.
> 
>  **The word “angst” is existential:** Soren Kierkegaard, a French existentialist, was the original philosopher who coined the term angst, deriving it from the word “anxiety”.
> 
>  **This Is Water:** A lot of R’s thoughts about living a self-aware life are nods to [ this amazing speech ](https://youtu.be/8CrOL-ydFMI) by David Foster Wallace. DFW struggled through a lifetime of mental illness and eventually took his own life.
> 
>  **Rolling a Pair of Dice Into a Black Hole:** is a nod to the lecture by Stephen Hawking that explores gravity, black holes, chaos theory, and predictability. R attempts to control the predictability in his life but, when he decides to interact with Morty, in his mind the consequences are unpredictable.


	4. My Church Offers No Absolutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There is no dark side of the moon, really. Matter of fact, it’s all dark.”_

“Ready to lay down all thoughts and surrender to the void, kid?”

R quoted the Beatles song from the album Morty was talking about earlier.

“You were listening. I thought... you were ignoring me.”

“Eh, one thing to know about me, kid, I’m usually always just half listening,” R admitted, collecting the bags of weed and a small wooden box before leading Morty toward the back room. He parted the veil, insisting that Morty walk through the sacred doorway before him. Morty slipped off his shoes and socks and stepped into the eclectic room. He made his way to the lovesac where he’d sat the previous day, and settled into the familiar embrace as he continued to try and figure out exactly what had happened between yesterday and today.

“Whether you experience heaven or hell, remember it is your mind which creates them – Avoid grasping one, or fleeing the other.”

“What does that mean?”

“That song, _Tomorrow Never Knows._ The lyrics were taken right out of the [ _Psychedelic Experience_ ](https://youtu.be/JhgJsg2mMeQ) _,_ the 60’s instruction manual for experiencing psychedelic drugs. It was a re-interpretation of the _Tibetan Book of the Dead.”_

Morty had originally returned to the store with the intent to apologize, certain that R had kicked him out for falling asleep. The store owner had seemingly ignored the teen throughout the day, right up to the moment when Morty had been ready to give up, confusing him further with an invitation to Church. He anxiously trailed his fingers through his crimson hair, looking for answers.

“Uh, hey Rick.” Morty began in another attempt at conversation. R sensed Morty's discomfort and offered an answer while he busied himself with setup, avoiding the teen’s stare.

“Hey kid,” he echoed, “I–I get stuck in my own head a lot and tend to be an asshole for no apparent reason, so whatever you’re wondering about over there, don’t take it personal. You’re a fuckin' Morty – you should know by now that Ricks can be assholes just fine on their own without your help.”

“Yeah, uh. Okay. I-If you say so.”

Not wanting to explain himself, R shut down the conversation. Earlier, the store owner had mentioned to the teen that he was having an off day. Perhaps the same thing that had caused him to kick Morty out of the store was behind his odd behavior today.

Although R told him not to think about it, Morty couldn’t help but feel that he was the one to blame. Ricks tended to speak with similar tones and body language, and Morty had become accustomed to reading their unspoken dialogue.

He knew that R had blamed Morty for whatever it was, but he didn’t want to admit it, and Morty wasn’t sure why. In the end, however, what mattered was that R had ultimately made the decision to invite him to Church. Whatever Morty had done, R was making a genuine effort to try and move past it, so it couldn't have been that bad.

“Thanks.” He offered, appreciative that R was trying to forgive him.

He glanced at the small wooden box that R had brought with them into the room. It rested on the table, giving off an ominous impression. A hollow triangle with a ray of light moving through it had been burned into the surface. It was the same image of the triangle that R wore on his shirt.

“Do you… need any help?” Morty offered on instinct, watching R’s frame continue to move over the small table. He waved a hand at the teen that was halfway between instructing and swatting away the distraction to his focus.

“Y-Yeah, find us a couple of lighters – No white ones.”

“Why no white lighters?”

“It’s bad luck with Earth weed.”

Morty continued to watch the older man work as he searched for two lighters in the room, noting how much R had seemed to visibly relax once in Church. The tension and apprehension in his entire frame seemed to have melted away, giving his motions a certain fluidity. This was the person he had become more familiar with in the short time they had spent together, and although he had only known him for a day, Morty thought R felt more like himself in this space. He crawled over to R, wanting to sit a bit closer to him.  

“What’s that?”

“This is for you, assuming you accept my one commandment.”

“Pffft, love one another?” Morty offered with a chuckle, adding onto the atheist's ongoing bit of using religious references.

R joined in, acknowledging the ridiculousness of it. “Yeah, ok, I get it. I–I’ve been fixated on this extended church metaphor lately. I don’t know why. Doesn’t make a lot of sense, but gotta stand by it. So take in all of this the way people should take religious doctrine, Morty – full of metaphors and contradictions – but mostly full of shit.”

“Isn't it supposed to all be about the spirit of the law, not the letter anyways?”

“Yeah, okay, _Sunday Best Morty_."

R’s joking demeanor fell away as he moved the box onto the floor between them, taking a deep breath that filled the moment with a heaviness.

“...Here’s me owning the shit. The commandment is this: 4:20 must be observed. If we’re gonna – if you wanna be smoke buds, then everyday your ass needs to be in this room, on time, no exceptions. You don’t have to smoke everyday – you just have to physically be here. If you can't do that, then I can’t smoke with you. And before you say anything, I know – It’s a tall fuckin’ order. So take your time and really think about it before you answer.”  

Morty considered R’s ultimatum as he opened the lid of the wooden box. Contained inside was what Morty assumed were the essential contents for a regular smoker: A classic glass pipe, small glass jar, lighter, joint papers, metal tools, xacto razor blade, breath mints, clear eyes, a few ziplock bags, paper clips, and a triangular shaped piece of glass...

R placed the ounce of his recently purchased Earth weed on top of the collection before sliding it toward Morty.

“Oh jeez, that’s a lot, Rick… Do you think I can do it?”

“You tell me.”

Morty wondered if he would be able to uphold such a strict, regimented promise. R was asking for a lot with his request, but Morty had the feeling that he wouldn’t have asked for something like this unless it were deeply important to him.

His hand stretched out to brush fingers against the woodgrain. Its features were worn with age. The box held an invisible emotional weight to it that Morty didn’t fully understand, but could nonetheless feel. R was silently offering something of emotional importance in return for Morty’s promise. He picked up the small obsidian glass pipe and inspected it, wondering if it had been R’s first.

Morty supposed R wouldn't tell him more about the box unless he agreed to the oddly specific conditions around keeping it. Like all Ricks, R seemed like an extremely guarded person, but unlike them, he seemed to earnestly lower those guards in the space he had so reverently referred to as Church.

If Morty really wanted to learn more about this strange Rick, then observing 4:20 would be the best way to go about it. He returned the piece into the box and matched R’s gaze.

“...Okay.” He paused before adding, “but only… Only if you to tell me more about this box, and why you – about what happened yesterday.”

R looked taken aback by Morty’s counter offer. He mulled his answer over for a moment before accepting.

“Fair trade, kid. You’re smarter than you look.”

R grinned, placing his hands on Morty’s shoulders to give them a slight squeeze.

“Then it looks like I'm gonna need to teach you how to properly smoke – ‘Cause I get high on schedule – There’re a lo~t of different ways I can call my own shit, but ‘high-functioning stoner’ describes about three of them.” R chuckled at his own obscure joke, before continuing.

“I'm not gonna let you get a reputation for being a sloppy smoker, kid, or let you waste any more of my good weed in here – so after today, you’re gonna take what's left of this ounce of Earth weed home, and I want you to practice everything I’m gonna teach you in here.”

“Like the shotgun?”

R glanced at him with a suspicious look before teasing. “Sure kid, practice with whoever you want.”

R had misunderstood his question. Morty had been wondering aloud what other kinds of things R wanted to teach him. He grimaced at the thought of smoking an entire ounce of Earth weed on this own.

“Does it have to be Earth weed?” He murmured, sticking out his tongue in disgust. It tasted terrible.

“Shit, you – you gotta earn the good kush, kid. I-I don't even know how you got your hands on that Blue Sanchez Dream you matched with today, but it’s way fuckin’ out of your league as a greenie.”

Morty huffed out a disappointed sigh. The truth was that Rick and Silent Morty had witnessed him getting kicked out of the shop the previous day. Naturally, they called it a domestic and did what they did best. Rick had empathetically placed a hand on Morty’s back and offered him a solution: the best way to make it up to R was with some quality bud, which, as it so happened, they could conveniently sell him.

Silent Morty insisted he buy the blue kind, and Rick had nodded in agreement. _Ricks always have a soft spot for Mortys. If you show up with good bud like this? Shit man, there's no way he's gonna turn you away._ It wasn't cheap. Morty wondered how R could afford the daily habit – he probably smoked his weight in expensive weed. His thoughts were interrupted by the stoner as he reassured him.

“In Church, we’ll smoke the really good shit. I'll provide. Gives you a little… A little incentive to not back out, but if you start buying on your own, don't buy your shit from anyone but Rick and Silent Morty out front.”

“Why not?” Morty asked, and R gave him a serious look before explaining.

“Because, there’s a lot of bad shit on the Citadel streets, even worse here in Sanchez Slums – lot of Ricks cutting their product with harder drugs and not saying shit about it, especially when they sell to Mortys. Rick and Silent Morty are the only two I trust... A couple of weed purists themselves.”

R rummaged through the items in the wooden box while lazily explaining the use and importance of each one. He insisted that, over time, Morty would figure out every item by necessity alone.  

“What about that thing?”

Morty pointed to the triangular piece of glass. R lifted it and held it above them with a smile as a small rainbow beam flashed on the black carpet below.  

“Eh, it’s a dispersive optical prism I made to fuck around with when I got high and started thinking about how the phenomenon of light– how something so obvious and simple is also so complex. Light defines every characteristic of our experience with reality…”

Morty watched the rainbow disappear as R tossed the prism back into the box. The prisom was what the art on R’s shirt had been depicting. The redhead considered that  it must have been important to the stoner if it was also inscribed on the surface of his wooden box.

“Is that what the album is about?”

R shrugged.

“It’s a subjective experience, but back on Earth, I used to call this box my stoner survival kit. Since it’s Earth weed we have today, we’re gonna indulge in a classic tradition – a guilty pleasure of mine, kid – gonna throw on some Dark Side and I’m gonna teach you how to roll some joints. After that, you can decide what it means for yourself.”  

R popped the seal on the ziplock and Morty watched as he buried his face into the opening to deep sniff the contents like some kind of weed-creep, mumbling through a pleasured moan about _good shit_. He extended the bag under Morty’s nose as if he were offering something pleasurable to the teen, and Morty caught the smell without even making an attempt to take a whiff. The poignant odor overwhelmed his senses and brought tears to the corners of his eyes. The teen murmured something about cat piss, and R gave a sultry laugh as he fingered the dense nuggets in the bag.  

“Heh, oh yeah baby, and we're gonna get our fingers deep into this cat by the time we're finished.”

“Wait... _What_?”

R ignored Morty’s confusion and continued to wax poetic about the various strains of weed he had experienced as it he were relating accounts from his personal spank bank.

“I mean, as far as Earth weed, goes, this is still pretty fuckin’ dank. Mmm… sweet and mellow like Rojo Rickbone, with a high that fuckin’ lasts like Cannasutra. Yep. Gotta start here Morty, because Earth weed is the original gangster...the mother strain. Gotta pay your dues.”

He closely inspected a nugget, before passing it into Morty’s outstretched hand.

“I’m gonna save the strain identification for another session cause, well, you gotta walk before you can run... Space weed and Sanchez Strains fuckin’ – they can get a lot weirder than Earth's holy trifecta...”

R caught himself from conversing into a tangent. He paused to add the cutting board to the items on the floor between them.

“Anyways... Let’s start by breaking up about an eighth of this – that’ll roll you around seven-ish joints… If you don’t like sticky fingers tough–  ‘cause I don’t use grinders or scissors – all just extra shit you don’t need.”

R displayed a hand to Morty while wearing a smug grin.  

“In matters of love and bud, kid, your best tool’s always gonna be your hands – gotta get well versed in your sensation of touch.”

Morty remembered the burning sensation of R’s rough fingertips brushing across his lips the night before. He felt his heart flip, blushing at the thought as he stared at R's hands and nodded.

“Over time, you won't need to identify strains cause your fingers are gonna gain a special kind of intimacy with the bud that can’t be topped... The receptors on your skin are gonna be able to soak in the oils and signal the strain to your nervous system long before you even take your first hit.”

Morty stared at his own fingertips, fascinated by the idea that just touching THC oils could make him feel the sensation of being high. His thoughts wandered back to R, and he wondered if it was the same when touching another person.

“Knowing and experiencing something at that level?” R gave a low satisfied hum. “Nothing else quite like it, kid. It's always fuckin’ worth it in the long run. Think of using your hands as a kind of intuitive connection – a spiritual kind of foreplay with your high.”

R began breaking up pieces of the nugget as Morty watched the nimble fingers make quick work of the bud, moving from a lifetime of muscle memory. The veteran stoner demonstrated for Morty.  

“Y-You wanna take the nugget and break it down by rolling your fingers in small circles like this. The goal here isn't really to break it down...it’s more of a gentle caress. It might stick if it’s a bit oily, might crumble if it’s too dry...depends on the weed. Ours is a bit sticky, but you should still be able to break it up… Mmm, baby’s gonna have a nice burn for our joint.”

Morty tried not to think of the smell as he followed R’s instructions with shaky hands. He pinched a nugget and tried to mimic R’s motions, fumbling and dropping the bud as it continually slipped from his fingers, regardless of the slight stickiness. R chuckled at him.

“Cat got your – cat not playing nice over there?”

Morty grumbled through the frustration as he gave an earnest effort to get the hang of the small but fluid motion. He only grew more nervous when R paused to intensely watch his hands work, offering encouragement.

“Doing great kid, give it just a bit more pressure...a little bit slower – Th-this is a cool fuckin’ cat, Morty, don't let that pungent coat keep you from having a good time with it.”

Morty snorted at the continued reference to weed as some sort of figurative pussy. He wondered if some sort of sexual kink for weed existed, and couldn't resist slightly teasing the record store owner about it. For R, it seemed like the experience of feeling music and drugs in his system were the equivalents of a sexual, if not spiritual experience.

“Uh...no kink shaming, but w-we're still talking about weed right?”

R gave a flirtatious smirk to Morty, before bringing his index finger to his mouth and gently sucking on the tip. He released his finger with wet pop and a cocky grin.

“You want a meaningful experience with something, kid?... Make love with it.”

Morty dry swallowed at the forward statement. He had expected R to dodge the insinuation, not outright encourage it, let alone suggest Morty _give it a try_. He flushed and turned his attention back to his pile of weed, regretting the backfired joke as a fierce embarrassment washed over him. R’s teasing voice let out a chuckle as Morty avoided looking in his direction.

After a few seconds of being too nervous to properly move his fingers, he felt a pair of hands reach out to cradle his. One hand caught Morty’s wrist, slipping to rest against the underside of his upturned palm, while the other pressed fingertips against Morty's own, and in a gentle pinch, began moving them in a small circular motion.

“Just like this, kid...You feel that? That's how hard you wanna press – take your time to find that sweet spot...don't be afraid to really get your fingers in there and feel it out.”

R tossed a teasing smirk towards Morty, who was still blushing at the contact.

“Gotta treat it right if you wanna listen to that silky purr, kid.”

“Aw, jeez, Rick, I got it...” Morty’s face continued to redden.

They worked through a few nuggets together until each had a small pile of shredded green in front of them. Morty held a newfound appreciation for the skill of the older man, who had made the action look effortless. R smiled at Morty’s pile.

“How's this?”

“Not bad,” he nodded, while inspecting Mortys’ work. He pointed to some larger grains. “While you wanna go for a fine grain, consistency is more important than size – a consistent green burns slo~w and even.”

“Is it the same for bad weed?”

“Hey – I may have said it was shitty Earth weed, but that doesn't mean it isn’t good bud – I was talking about the taste. Overall, Earth weed’s pretty vanilla...I-I’ve more-or-less expanded my horizons, kid, but there there’s a large number of Ricks and Mortys who've developed a sort of acquired nostalgic taste for it.”

R brushed a gentle finger over the pile of bud, pressing the tip of his finger into the lush plant leaves. They writhed with the release of pressure, springing back forward.

“See that? Good bud’s alive, kid.”

R reached into Morty’s wooden box to pull out the matchbook of rolling papers. He pulled a sheet out and handed it to Morty before taking a sheet of his own, weaving it between his three middle fingers.

“At the risk of fuckin’ soggy joint tips, we’re gonna roll these cones without a crutch or a filter. You’re not gonna use joints unless you are flying under the radar or some shit, so I’m not gonna waste my time teaching you anything outside of the absolute essentials, because your preference should always be for glass...trust me, your cheap ass is gonna wanna build a resin stash.”

R dropped a generous pile of weed in the bent strip of paper, before spreading it out and cradling it with his thumb and forefingers. He continued to demonstrate the dexterity of his fingers as he began rolling the paper in a gentle rocking motion until a slight cone shape began to form. He finished the process by tucking the paper back into the roll and closing the joint, throwing a smile and a wink to Morty who was watching him work in awe.

“This is where those sticky fingers will help. Y-you want the weed to be pressed together here, but not condensed. Air’s gotta be able to easily move through it, but not flow freely – too much in either direction and you’re just gonna burn through your shit just trying to get the smoke in your mouth... Starting to see why joints are a fickle bitch, kid?”

R leaned down to extend his tongue and licked the entire length of paper to make a seal. He reached for the xacto blade and used the blunt end to gently compress the weed into the joint’s tip before twisting the top off in a clean seal, displaying the perfectly rolled joint in front of Morty before placing it on the table.

“Don’t worry, kid, yours isn’t gonna look anything like mine, but it’ll still get you high, and that’s all that matters.”

"Okay. I-I’ll do my best."

Morty again tried to mimic the motions. He felt as if he was doing alright until he began rolling the paper into a cone shape. His grip was too tight and weed spilled out of the ends as Morty lost control of the motion. He sighed and tried again, persevering with the goal of at least rolling a single joint. In the meantime R had effortlessly finished four more, building a small pyramid on the table.

Morty leaned down to finally, successfully close off a roll with an uncoordinated, awkward lick. He smiled and held it up with pride for R to take in. It was a bit bigger than R’s, and the paper was battered with unsightly wrinkles, having lost its smooth form from Morty's multiple attempts at working it over. R snickered before reaching out to pick the joint from his fingers for a closer look. His light-hearted laughter filled the room once more.

“Heh, it’d be perfect if you were aiming for a blunt, kid, but we’re rolling joints.”

With a playful smile, R muzzle-loaded the remainder of Morty’s weed into the open mouth of the oversized joint, before packing it with the tip of his pinky and closing it off. R pressed and wiggled a paperclip down the center of the joint shaft to ensure a proper airway, before he mounted it between his index and forefinger with the intent of claiming it as his own.

“Good thing for you, I could really take a thick one right now...can’t let all that hard work go to waste.”

Morty felt his face burn as the man who'd suggested making love to his weed held a joint stitched together by Morty’s tongue in his fingers. R slipped one of his own joints in between Morty’s fingers and lifted a lighter between them.

“Ready?”

Morty nodded as R instructed Morty to slowly rotate the joint while he ignited the lighter, carefully sliding the flame against the neatly rounded tip. Morty watched as the end began to char and glow a classic cherry red.

“Joints aren't cigarettes, kid. You don’t inhale at the light, or you’re gonna get an uneven burn – Keep the lighter close by, so you can relight and even it out as you need to. The goal here is to burn an even cherry, so you wanna give this a series of slow, even, pulls. Like uh, sipping from a soda can.”  

R procured a small glass ashtray as Morty inhaled, adding it to the paraphernalia strewn across the floor. Morty exhaled and, like the previous day, was caught in a fit of coughs. R laughed at him as he moved to tease the flame over the end of his own fat joint, encouraging the teen as the smell of Earth weed filled the room.

“Getting better, kid. Pink lung is like stretching a tight ass – gonna take some time.”

“Ugh, this tastes like ass.”

“Heh, does it taste like burnt weeds that you just shoved into your mouth? Cause that's exactly what you just did – yep...Earth weed’s a special kind of bud.”  

“Jeez, how can Ricks have a taste for _Earth weed_?”

R pulled small bursts of air through his joint to draw out the glowing ember of the cherry.

“I can’t say for all Ricks, but when I first started smoking, I’d light a fire to _Dark Side_ with shitty Earth weed every time I opened this box.”

“That’s the band on your shirt right? With the prism on it?”

“Yep. Yesterday, I told you my favorite song of all time was _Breathe,_ because it’s my absolute favorite song to get high to, but my answer really should have been _Dark Side of the Moon,_ because Pink Floyd didn’t write singles, they composed albums – you ever listen to ‘em?”

Morty shook his head and R’s expression lit up with excitement. He eagerly dug out his turntable tablet, placing it on top of the cutting board’s flat surface.

"Oh shit, kid, You’re in for a fuckin' experience – It’s the greatest selling album of all time for a reason – These guys were recording artists, and their magnum opus was this concept album – the first of its kind, and don’t give me that shit about _Sargeant Peppers_ being the first – _Dark Side's_ a fuckin’ work of art about time and latent insanity.”

R activated the turntable interface and located the album, pausing for a moment to press two fingers against the engraved hollow triangle of the wooden box before pressing play. He took a few small hits from his joint and then laid on the carpet, beckoning for Morty to do the same.

 

 

 

 

“I don’t hear anything–?”

“–Just fuckin’ give it a sec. Take a hit and listen, kid – Make love with it – feel it moving inside you! Let it show you a good time!"

Morty took two consecutive puffs from his joint before joining R on the carpet as he had done the previous day. He was beginning to feel the effects of his high, the familiar tingle on the back of his neck, and his body feeling as if it wanted to float. He thought he had been hearing his own nervous heartbeat, but smiled after realizing it was just the bass drum of the music quickening with a pulse that resembled a human heart. He turned his head to R as he thought of the small moments passing between them, and was gripped with the desire to reach out and hold R’s hand again, but it was currently occupied by the joint he had made that R was taking another hit of.

_I've been mad for fucking years. Absolutely years, been over the edge_

_“Dark Side_ wasn’t afraid to explore the absolute fuckin’ chaos of the mind, kid – It’s a story told in two parts. The first half of the album tells the story of a man at the threshold of insanity…and the second half…well, the second half is about the things that pushed him over the edge.”

_I've always been mad I know I've been mad, like the most of us._

An array of seemingly random, chaotic sounds and laughter filled the room. This was supposed to be a song? Slightly anxious, Morty continued to listen through the confusion.

The tension of the moment built as Morty heard the increasingly erratic sound of a man screaming, before it crescendoed, and broke through its climax into a mellow ebb and flow of music. Structured guitar riffs and beats embraced him, welcoming him into the world of familiar music.

Morty took in a deep breath, only becoming aware at the inhale that he had been holding it. He felt himself relax into the release, as a sudden feeling of weightlessness took over his body.

“Fu~ck yeah, baby. Take me _home_.”

Rick exhaled a stream of smoke with an orgasmic groan as if his body had similarly just released itself.

“Did you just – I mean – already? It’s the first song!”  

Morty couldn't stop himself from kink shaming, and let out a roll of spirited laughs at the thought of R jizzing his pants to his favorite song. The sound of R’s hearty laugh joined in as Morty’s joke landed and they were caught in the moment of their high. From the corner of his eye, he awkwardly caught the movement of R palming himself with his free hand as he adjusted his jeans. Morty blushed, snickered, then coughed in embarrassment, realizing that his joke might not have been too far off.

R continued to laugh for a moment longer before breathing out a contented sigh.

"Mmmm... I remember now... this is why I wanted to smoke with you again. You remind me what it’s like to enjoy the weed – not just get high on it... Even when it’s just shitty Earth weed.”

Morty smiled at R's straightforwardness, glad that he wasn't seen as a nuisance by this man. That his presence was not only welcome, but desired. Their eyes closed and they swayed their heads to the beat of the music, further relaxing into the shared high, slipping into a moment that only they knew. It was a shared moment of self quietly lit from within.

 

 _Breathe, breathe in the air_  
_Don't be afraid to care_  
_Leave, don't leave me_  
_Look around, choose your own ground_  
_Long you live and high you fly_  
_And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry_  
_All you touch and all you see_  
_Is all your life will ever be_

“It’s fuckin’ eclipsed by the moon, Morty… Sometimes, I wonder if all I do is fuckin’ chase rabbits.” R thought aloud, interjecting his commentary alongside the music, but Morty didn’t mind. He enjoyed hearing the man’s thoughts about his favorite album as they listened together.

 

 _Run, rabbit run_ _  
_ _Dig that hole, forget the sun_

 

“Y~eah, I get that.” Morty agreed, as his head began to involuntarily sway with the music. He hadn't fully understood the words, but he picked up on the tone of R's voice that expressed self-doubt, which he definitely could relate to.

Morty considered how intimate such a moment between them felt. Never before had a Rick invited him into such a personal, unguarded space and shared it with him, as R was doing now.

 

 _For long you live and high you fly_  
_But only if you ride the tide_  
_And balanced on the biggest wave_  
_You race towards an early grave_

 

The music boomed into an ominous sound.

“This song, _On the Run,_ is intentionally stressful, kid – Roger had an irrational fear of travel. This song’s a reflection of that. It’s purposefully trying to evoke anxiety, there’s a riff – you’ll hear it on a later song called _Money,_ but you’re hearing the same eight notes, they’re just sped up on this track –This is what I fuckin’ mean by concept album, kid. The entire work is consistent. It's conceptually complete.”  

Morty listened to the notes as they increasingly sped up, caught on a seemingly endless loop. He strained against his high and began to feel exhausted at being forced to listen to the jarring, inescapable repetition. He thought he heard footsteps in the room and turned to focus his attention on R, who was rambling on about the album's musical technique.

“...and Roger’s lyrics are fuckin’ poetry. They took the most basic building blocks of sound and music theory, and layered meaning with consistent and well placed boundaries and contexts – until the result was something so obvious yet so fuckin’ complex at the same time. It’s like what we were talking about earlier with light, kid. The most obvious and important things in our existence are often the hardest to really fuckin’ see. This album gets that.”   

“Mmmmmmm…”

Morty wanted to join in the conversation, but doubted that he could keep one going for very long, he kept forgetting what he wanted to say, before he was going to say it. Instead, he made a lazy sound that he hoped suggested interest. His high had fully settled in, and Morty was impressed that R was able to continue to tell him about the album with such detail. He must have known a lot about it for a long time. He focused on the low registers of the man's voice as he spoke and closed his eyes, smiling to himself at now nice R sounded.

“On the surface, I think it’s a song about fear, but deep down, I think it’s about the pointless effort of running that’ll only consume us in the end. Ricks simultaneously run away from and towards the things we’re most afraid of... the things we worship...either way, we’re all still just running towards the same inevitable demise.”     

Morty nodded, unable to quickly think of a response. But he did understand. Morty had always felt like Ricks were afraid of something. R was saying that they were afraid of becoming themselves. He wondered if that was why they called each other Rick-inspired insults when they were mad. Because to a Rick, the worst thing he could be was himself.

Morty didn't want to continue to think about how little Ricks thought of themselves, and decided to just lay back and listen to R’s voice again, feeling his eyes close to the sounds of an airplane, moving footsteps, and the laugher of the madman.

 

_Live for today, gone tomorrow, that's me, Hahaha!_

 

“... and if nothing matters, why fuckin’ run at all?”

R glanced to Morty with a smirk, noticing that the kid had slightly dozed off and was drooling on his carpet. He blew a stream of smoke in his face with no luck at causing him to stir. R studied the features of Morty's face just as he had done the previous day. Envious of the vacant expression of sleep on the boy's face, he wondered what it would be like to be able to turn off that easily.

“Heh, I guess running’s the only thing we have.”

R took another drag of his joint, letting out a bitter chuckle.

 

 

A chorus of alarms rang out, jolting Morty to a full sit as intense panic set his heart in motion. Alarms and bells continued to chime and echo into the room as Morty desperately searched for their source. Rick laughed and waved a hand at him.

“Oh shit… I forgot to warn you. Their concepts include the unpleasant shit too.”

"Y-yeah. A–A little warning would have been – would've been nice!”

Morty breathed himself back to a calmer state, and returned to the embrace of the carpet, his heart still racing to the metronome of the song as he anxiously fisted his hands into the carpet fringes.

The sound of the heartbeat returned, and there was something primal about the rhythm of the accompanying drums. It slowed his own heartbeat to synchronize, and eased him back into a steadier calm. Morty was fascinated by the experience of feeling his body respond so pointedly to the music.

“The self-awareness of feeling time pass… It’s a key feature of subjective consciousness, kid – at least for humans anyways. Took me a long fuckin’ while to get used to life on the Citadel. This world exists in the 6th dimension, technically outside of time, and Ricks had to fuck around with it enough to make it feel somewhat normal again...”

Morty felt his heart beating and wondered if the human concept of time itself was built around this fundamental, universal pulse of life. After all, the only true self-aware measure of feeling time pass was the rhythm of a beating heart.

 

 _Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day_  
_You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way_  
_Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town_  
_Waiting for someone or something to show you the way_

 

Morty thought of his life one Earth, and how quickly he had chosen to leave it behind to come to the Citadel. He stirred uncomfortably on the carpet, not wanting to think about things that had long since past. He gripped the hem of his shirt nervously, as the music continued to play.

 

 _Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain_  
_You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today_  
_And then one day you find ten years have got behind you_  
_No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun_

 

“The idea of regret. Of not taking advantage of living your life... Heh, that shit doesn’t exist here, kid. Time’s different on the Citadel…” R took a deep inhale of his joint, stabilizing his thoughts. “...It’s artificial.” He let out a slow stream of smoke, before continuing to share.

“Ricks don't worry about death. About wasting time. In this _Brave New Citadel_ , they worry about having too much of it.”

A powerful guitar solo broke away into the sounds of a choir singing. Unaware of himself, R’s head involuntarily bounced to the energetic rhythm of the guitar as his hand slapped on the carpet in sync. Morty had never considered that time on the Citadel was different than it had been on Earth, but in hearing it explained by R, it made more sense than it didn't. He'd always taken the idea of infinite iterations at face value, and had never considered what that actually meant.

“Hey uh, Hey Rick?”

“Yeah?”

“How long have you been on the Citadel?”

“Eh, once you’re a lifer in the fishbowl, measurements of time are a lot more arbitrary. It feels like forever, but judging against the timelines of my in-dimensional counterparts I'd say I’ve been living the Citadel life for around 20 Earth years.”

“It does feel like forever, huh?”

 

 _You run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking_  
_Racing around to come up behind you again._  
_The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older,_  
_Shorter of breath and one day closer to death._

 

“Forever isn't all it's cut out to be, kid. Ricks’re caught in an ugly cycle, returning to the things they worship just to pass the fuckin’ time.”  R lamented as he exhaled another puff of his joint with a heavy sigh.

The beautiful voice of a woman floated across the soundwaves, before the familiar beats and sound of the first song returned. It felt strangely comforting to return to it, more so than the first time he had listened to the song. In repetition, it had become a musical sanctuary. A familiar place that he could return to.

“Mmm, take me back!” R murmured to himself.

The song was the same, but the lyrics were slightly different. Morty puffed his joint, inhaling a deep familiar breath, feeling like he had just come home, understanding R’s actions from a few moments earlier.

 

 _Home, home again_  
_I like to be here when I can_  
_And when I come home cold and tired_  
_It's good to warm my bones beside the fire_

_Far away across the field_  
_The tolling of the iron bell_  
_Calls the faithful to their knees  
_ _To hear the softly spoken magic spells_

 

“Yep, there’re no absolutes for the starving faithful of the Citadel, kid.” R paused as the music began to transition, before correcting himself.

“Well, I guess there might be one…”

The music slowed, shifting into the sounds of a quiet, ominous piano. Morty hadn’t been expecting to hear the sounds of a piano on the rock album, though it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

It felt reserved in its softness, almost as if it were being played while in reverence or mourning. It stirred a nostalgic sense of yearning for Morty, as his thoughts drifted to memories of his original Rick. He fought the strange sensation of wanting to go back to the first song, but intuitively understood that he must continue to listen. He instinctively reached out to grab R’s hand, caught in an unexplainable apprehension that the song had evoked from him. He didn't want to listen to it alone. R sat up slightly and looked at him.

“Hey... you okay, kid?”

Morty nodded as the madman’s voice from the earlier songs returned.

 

 _I am not frightened of dying,_  
_any time will do, I don't mind._  
_Why should I be frightened of dying?_  
_There's no reason for it,_  
_you've gotta go sometime._

 

“Are you afraid of...that?”

Morty hesitated in asking as he continued to hold R’s hand, recalling what the stoner had told him earlier.

Although the voice sounded accepting of death, R had earlier said that the man had been _pushed_ over the edge. R stared at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze, and his lips pressed together in a moment of thought before he offered the redhead an honest answer.

“Ricks don’t fear death on the Citadel, Morty. The only kind of death we’ve ever feared is a questionably figurative one – the loss of self...in one way or another.”

“Hey uh, is that man’s voice supposed to be...I dunno, it feels too real be a concept. That’s a weird thing to say, oh boy... Maybe I’m too high right now.”

“I can’t think of that voice being anyone else but Syd. This album was his fuckin’ swan song”

“Who’s Syd?”

“The guy who was never on the album.”

R smirked at the riddle and closed his eyes, leaning back into the music. He squeezed Morty's hand.

“I’ll tell you more about it another time,” he promised, as the woman's voice from the song about time returned, no longer softly singing the sounds of a lullaby, but bellowing out a poignant solo.

The voice was unafraid, and cried out with such emotion that Morty could only imagine that she was singing in the presence of something divine, in the presence of her end. The music rose into a chorus reminiscent of an orchestrated hymn, and Morty considered the spiritual theme of the song and R’s ongoing church metaphors.

The woman sang no lyrics, only of her experience in a short moment of time. Her voice burned painfully, through its final moments of life, imbued with the absolute essence of what it was to experience being alive, and the last song she would knowingly sing was ecstatically lit from within as she poured her entire self into the only thing she had left to offer.

In its raw, emotional honesty, it suddenly became uncomfortable to listen to. Morty’s thoughts returned to his grandfather as he listened to her swan song.

 

_I never said, I was frightened of dying_

 

His grandfather hadn’t been afraid to die like that either, and in his final moments, he had revealed some similar truth to Morty. There weren't really any words to describe the raw emotion of brushing up against that feeling in remembrance, and he felt his eyes burn as they welled with tears. His heart seized for a short moment as he quietly sniffed and held his breath, trying to stop them, but eventually he exhaled, and allowed himself to feel the complex memories and emotions the song evoked from him.

R held Morty's hand, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze as his thumb moved in a small circular motion across the boy’s knuckle.

“Music’s a pretty powerful thing...”

Morty nodded feeling the warm stream of tears trail towards his ears as he stared at the stars on the ceiling. “...Yeah, it is.”

The music slowly died down, leaving the room eerily quiet.

It was, Morty realized, the first pause between songs since R had hit play. The silence felt almost sacred in its weight. It resonated with a feeling of finality and Morty wondered if that was also an intentional part of the album. Connected only by the sensation of touch, together, they held the hallowed silence.

Eventually Morty released R's hand to sit upright and remove his glasses, rubbing the tears from his eyes, and feeling like he had just come out of an emotional journey. R followed, rising from the carpet to reach out and ruffle Morty’s hair with a warm smile, lifting the heavy mood that had lingered in the room.

“Originally, this is where you would have needed to flip the record. I like to use the intermission to re-up.”

Morty gave R a light chuckle, followed by a soft smile. He had been expecting the man to excitedly ask for his thoughts so far on the album, but instead the stoner remained silent.

“Don’t you wanna know if I– what I think so far?”  

“I don’t ask those kind of questions, kid, cause I’m not looking for your approval. I’m just trying to show you a good time.”

R lit up another joint, offering one to Morty, who declined, still feeling the effects of the first one. R tossed him a knowing smirk, but didn’t tease him about it.

“I already know what this album means to me, and I’m sharing some of that with you. If you wanna share the personal meaning you’ve found, I’ll listen – but I’m not expecting you to share it.”   

R pressed play on the tablet for the next song to begin.

 

 

 

 

“My Grandpa...he’s gone. It just… It made me think of him, is all.”

Before R could respond the music started playing again. Morty quickly layed back on the carpet, not wanting a response. R must have sensed his lack of desire to receive one, because he didn’t press for more information, and instead quietly joined him on the shaggy surface.

The upbeat sounds of a deep bass guitar, money and cash registers filled the room, sounding exciting and luxurious, but altogether mechanical and lifeless in the formulaic jarring repetition. Morty was certain he had heard this song before.

“This is that song I was telling you about, when we were listening to _On the Run._ The intro of this song – it’s the same eight notes. Pretty clever way to tie together the ideas of time and money. Y’know, time is money, money is power...”

 

 _Money, get away_  
_Get a good job with more pay and you're okay_  
Money, it's a gas

 _Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash_  
_New car, caviar, four-star daydream_  
_Think I'll buy me a football team_

“If our collective dicks didn’t get hard at the thought of profit by self-exploitation, Ricks probably could have made a currency system work on the Citadel…”

 

 _Money, get back_  
_I'm all right Jack keep your hands off of my stack_  
_Money, it's a hit_

 _Don't give me that do goody good bullshit_  
_I'm in the high-fidelity first class travelling set_  
_And I think I need a Lear jet_

 

“Pssshhh. Council of Ricks...long-since abandoned ideal of society: _‘working for each other’_ in exchange for money...Nah, the real hands of power are the Rickholes in control of yet another artificial system, unchecked capitalism at its finest – slavery with extra steps.”  

The saxophone reminded Morty of Miami Rick, and he imagined the kind of lifestyle on the Citadel that was only possible with insane amounts of money. He mentioned the thought to R, who snickered in agreement.

“That's so fuckin’ perfect. He loves the lush life – I always imagined Flesh Curtains Rick, living the intergalactic rock star lifestyle of interspecies sex and drug-crazed afterparties – Fast-paced and out of control speedballing.”

“Did you play in the Flesh Curtains?”

“Something like that. Life _‘On the Run’_ and I didn’t exactly mix...Cruisin for a bruisin’ and eventually crashed. My line on the curve wasn’t meant for the fast lane, kid.”

 

 _Money, it's a crime_  
_Share it fairly but don't take a slice of my pie_  
_Money, so they say_  
Is the root of all evil today

 _But if you ask for a rise  
_ It's no surprise that they're giving none away

 _Why does anyone do anything?_  
_I don't know, I was really drunk at the time!_  
I don't know why...

 

Morty listened to the madman’s voice as it rambled about getting into a drunken fight. The first song slowed, and the next song began to play on top of it with the stretched out lulls of a church organ. It almost felt familiar, like a song from the first half of the album.

The pacing was the same, but it was all slightly different now. Morty sleepily stretched on the carpet, taking a deep breath as he relaxed into the mellow jazz sounds and harmonic vocals that sang a cautionary lullaby.

“Like the notation in _Money, Us and Them_ uses the same chord progression as _Great Gig in The Sky,_ it's just played on guitar here. I think it was a subtle jab at all the fuckin’ pointless holy crusades – it’s a song about unnecessary conflict and division.”

 

 _Us, and them  
_ And after all, we're only ordinary men.

 _Me, and you  
_ _God only knows, it's not what we would choose_

 

Morty thought of the divide between Ricks and Mortys on the Citadel as he listened to R talk about the ideas in the song.

“Do you think Ricks and Mortys are divided?”

R scoffed at the earnest question. “Kid, is that a fuckin’ rhetorical question?”

Morty rolled his eyes at R’s teasing. “Then, why–”

“–Because Ricks are assholes.” R interjected his answer before hearing the full question. It seemed to be his answer for a lot of things.

“Ugh..”

Morty gave an irritated sigh through his high, not wanting to put the effort into asking for a better answer. Rick sensed his shift in mood and offered a more in-depth explanation with a playful shove of Morty’s shoulder and a snicker.

“Ricks either love Mortys or hate ‘em. You kids are like walking mirrors – tend to remind us of everything we’re not, or more accurately, everything we used to be.”

“And what’s that?”

R ignored his question. “Doesn't matter. Ricks are assholes,” he reiterated. “We either selfishly wanna try’n take whatever it is we think you kids have for our own benefit, or we resent you for having it. That’s the divide, kid.”

“What about you?”

R shrugged. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

Morty didn’t like what the non-answer implied. R thought he was taking advantage of Morty. Before Morty could ask what he meant by it, R changed the subject.

“–Anyways, it’s all a fallacy, kid, black and white thinking. Us and Them.”

“Then why is it called _Dark Side of the Moon?_ Isn’t that some kind of black and white thinking too?”  

“You’re jumping ahead, kid. We’ll get there in a few songs.”

 

 _Black and blue  
__And who knows which is which and who is who._  

 _Up and down.  
_ _But in the end it's only round and round._

 

“As the Citadel spins...as much as Ricks like to think we’re the center of the fuckin’ universe with our ‘woe is me’ existential bullshit, you kids are here too, and you...”  

 

 _"Listen son", said the man with the gun_ _  
_ _"There's room for you inside"_

 

R gave Morty another playful nudge.

“You didn’t break under the gaze of an infinite self. I-it kind of forces Ricks to own their own shit, and I’ve never met a Rick who was into it,” R caustically joked as the madman's voice faded into the song once again, this time speaking of violence as a way to maintain control of a situation.

 

 _I mean, they're not gonna kill ya…_  
_If you give 'em a quick short, sharp, shock, They won't do it again…_  
_...good manners don't cost nothing do they..._

“Yep. For Ricks, it’s more like the internal conflict of cognitive dissonance - _Us and Us_ ... we can’t figure out what we have, let alone what we fuckin’ want.”  

Morty frowned in agreement as R’s expressed thoughts made him feel melancholic.  

 

 _Down and out_  
_It can't be helped but there's a lot of it about_

 _With, without_  
_And who'll deny it's what the fighting's all about?_

 _Out of the way_  
_It's a busy day_  
_I've got things on my mind_

The music abruptly changed into something similar to what they had been listening to the day before. The rhythm of a psychedelic synthesizer spilled like a prismatic kaleidoscope into the room.

“This sounds like the music we were listening to yesterday,” Morty pointed out.

“Heh, l-little fun fact – Pink Floyd got their start as an experimental psychedelic rock band in the 60’s. Syd single-handedly invented the techniques of the genre. They were the far out fringe band that influenced the mainstream current. You’ll like this – they recorded at Abbey Road at the same time as The Beatles, even had the same manager for a bit.”

Morty’s eyes lit up with a smile before R closed his eyes and mimicked him, allowing his head to bob to the sweet psychedelic beats that bubbled like acid into the room. Morty’s grin widened as he watched the record store owner, and was reminded how much the stoner enjoyed this kind of music.

“This song, I-it’s called _Any Colour You Like._ Unlike the previously mentioned black and white mentality, _this_ is a world in color. – It’s the only true instrumental song on the album, and if you ask me, it's a song about the perception and subjectivity of one’s mind. – The lens through which we view it all. My guess is that LSD was the lens... perception-altering substances and all that... a mind so expanded outside of black and white, that it burst with the full spectrum of color.”

“What if the lens was insanity?” Morty offered. “Like, a mind that could see all the colors at the same time... You said all that stuff about light and how we experience reality earlier… and that this album was about the chaos of the mind.”

R had fallen unsettlingly quiet to listen to Morty’s perspective as the teen continued to ride the thoughts of his high.

“Like, if a mind is a prism, then it would experience reality differently...”

“Seeing the world in every color simultaneously sounds pretty fuckin’ overwhelming, kid. – like a bad fuckin' trip – Not being able to turn off from that–”

R took a deep breath and gave a slight cough, his his voice constricted by the tightening muscles in his throat. “That’s the kind of thing that could really push someone over the edge… Fuck. Maybe you're onto something, kid. I hadn’t considered it, but yeah, insanity’s the fuckin’ prism. It’s the lens through which we experience the nature of our reality...”

R uneasily laughed, and took a series of careful puffs from his joint, motioning to pass it toward Morty, before remembering that morty had earlier declined, following his remembrance by taking another puff for good measure. The song returned to the intro of _Breathe_ for a far too brief moment.   

“Speaking of, hang on tight kid, ‘cause we’re leading into the finale with a song called _Brain Damage.”_

R reached a hand out to Morty in an unspoken gesture of not wanting to listen alone, and Morty thread their fingers together in a tight grip, as the familiar sounds of a guitar embraced and welcomed them. R took another quick drag of his joint, and held onto Morty's hand more tightly.

 

 _The lunatic is on the grass_  
_The lunatic is on the grass_  
_Remembering games, and daisy chains and laughs_  
_Got to keep the loonies on the path_

 

“This song fuckin’ reminds me of being locked in the Citadel. There’s too much fuckin’ time to think here. This glass menagerie is nothing more than a giant broken mirror, and I haven’t been able to decide if seeing my infinite reflection has made me better or worse...not sure if it even matters.”

 

 _The lunatic is in the hall_  
The lunatics are in my hall  
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor  
And every day the paperboy brings more

 

“Weed keeps me sane, kid. I don't know whose fuckin' idea it was to put all the Ricks together under one roof like this… We’re only gonna drive each other crazy. W-We already fuckin’ bring out the worst in each other.”

R’s hand constricted again as they listened into the chorus. Morty wasn't sure that R was aware of his tension, but Morty gently stroked his thumb across R’s knuckles in a continuous gesture of reassurance, happy to feel his grip slightly relax at the motion.

 

 _And if the dam breaks open many years too soon_  
_And if there is no room upon the hill_  
_And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too_  
_I'll see you on the dark side of the moon_

 

The haunting laughter of the madman returned.

 

 _The lunatic is in my head  
_ _The lunatic is in my head_

 

Morty found himself now wondering if the voice of the madman on the album were a real person, or if the voice was the entity living in the person’s mind.

“It’s a song about being crazy, but if you ask me, it’s about the darkness of isolation. That special kind of loneliness, born from the futile attempt to prevent anymore destruction to yourself and others, but it’s inevitable... When I checked myself into the Citadel...”

R fell silent, and withheld the remainder of his thoughts.

 

 _You lock the door  
_ _And throw away the key_

 

“There's someone in my head, but it's not me.”

R spoke the words in sync with the lyrics, and Morty sat up slightly to look toward him with concern. Did he think he needed to isolate himself? That he was losing his mind?

Morty’s brow furrowed in thought, squeezing R’s hand tightly in protest, and feeling unsettled as he began to wonder exactly why this album meant so much to the record store owner. R’s hand tensed once more in an anticipatory grip, and the music built and crescendoed to break through to the chorus.

 

 _And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear  
_ _You shout and no one seems to hear_

 

The woman with the beautiful swan song returned to share her voice for a brief moment, and Morty’s heart clenched with the sense of dark reminiscence of the powerful emotion it had earlier pulled out of him.

 

 _And if the band you're in starts playing different tunes  
_ I'll see you on the dark side of the moon

 

“He wrote all the lyrics on the album, but this and _Time_ were the only songs Roger himself sang. On both songs, I think he was singing to his best friend, Syd.”

Morty’s stomach stirred at the realization that the madman was, in fact, a real person, who had been speaking from the darkness of insanity for the entire length of the album. The disembodied voice took on a haunting quality as Morty continued to listen, returning with it to a melody of psychedelic whimsy that spoke of the band’s simple beginnings.

“If _‘losing it’_ was the trade off for happiness or at least some kind of _‘ignorant bliss’,_ I’d’ve chased that rabbit all the way down... But the fear is that you don’t ever fully lose your _sense of self_ ...you just get lost _within yourself_.”

The cackle of the madman’s laughter echoed over the music in response.

 

 _I_ _can't think of anything to say except –Hahaha!  
_ _I think it’s nice. Hahaha!_

 

“They say time only moves forward, and can only be experienced backwards, kid. Well, welcome to the end of time.”

Immediately, the music crescendoed, bursting into a musical climax with the expressive harmonious sounds of a church organ. R’s grip remained firm in Morty’s hand as the music encapsulated the themes of the entire album in a single revealing moment, one that was as poignant as it was fleeting.

 

 _All that you touch  
_ _All that you see_

 

Morty recognized the woman’s voice as it returned once more to sing before the presence of something sacred, but instead of focusing on death like before, the song caused Morty to consider life.

He felt as if he had lived an entire life within the experience of a single album, and it flashed before his mind’s eye as the woman's wailing echoed the powerful raw emotion of it all.

All of the simple threads of meaning wove together in an apotheosis that pulsed with the beat of an optimistic, hopeful undercurrent of some kind of cosmic unity.

He felt tears begin to well as his chest glowed with warmth and emotion. His heartbeat resonated the feeling of the vibrant sound, and it ached in such a simple yet beautifully complex way he thought his heart might burst open, revealing every color simultaneously under the light of the sun.

 

 _All that is now_  
_All that is gone_  
_All that's to come_  
_and everything under the sun is in tune_  
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

 

As the song faded out, the album came full circle and Morty was left with the sound of a quiet beating heart in space. The rhythm of his own pulse, in sync. The madman’s voice interrupted the ceremonious silence from the darkness one final time.

 

 _There is no dark side of the moon really.  
_ _Matter of fact it's all dark._

 

“Everything under the sun is fuckin’ eclipsed by the moon, kid.” R echoed the voice with bitter and indescribable composure, undercutting the optimism of the song, and leaving the moment feeling hollow and robbed. He released his grip from Morty's hand, and pulled it away.

“All the good things life can offer are there for Ricks to grasp, but the influence of some dark force in our nature – the influence of our own fuckin’ mind, prevents us from seizing them.”

Morty sat up moving closer to R, and hovered over him, slightly upset that the record store owner had just killed the vibe. He poked at R’s brooding statement.

“You keep talking about Ricks in general ... But what about you?”  

Carefully, Morty pressed his hand delicately against R's chest, feeling their hearts pulse together in a quiet synchronized rhythm, an effect of having listened to the music together. R hesitated, before cautiously brushing the tip of his own fingers against the teen’s, watching as their fingers slowly reached toward one another.

“What do _you_ want?”

“Rick’s don’t know what they want, kid.”

Morty watched over R, studying R’s features as his shadow fell across the older man's withdrawn expression.

“What did _you_ want...yesterday? You looked...I dunno, but you looked...afraid.” Morty gave voice to the thought that had occupied his mind for the entire day. He didn’t know what R had been so afraid of, and could only believe it was something he had done, despite R’s insistence otherwise.

“Did... “ Morty paused before resolutely continuing, “Did you even want me to come back, today?”

“I was afraid,” R admitted, exhaling a sobering breath of air with a sigh, before looking up into Morty’s eyes, and just as quickly breaking his gaze away. He extinguished the remaining piece of his joint and propped himself up on an elbow, bringing their faces closer together.

The stoner caught Morty’s eyes once again, lifting a slightly shaky hand with the intent to hold the teen’s face, before stopping himself just as they were about to meet, and resigned, pulling his hand away and balling it into a frustrated first before returning to the carpet with another heavy sigh.

“I’m afraid of change… You still wanna know about that that box, kid?”

“Y-yeah, I do.” Morty nodded in earnest as R continued to avoid his gaze.

“That box was Church in my original dimension.”

Morty considered R’s reserved action from moments before, not knowing what to think about it, or how to try to even begin to understand it.

Such a confrontation had never happened between himself and a Rick before. All of the Ricks he had ever known simply took whatever they wanted from him, when they wanted it. They never hesitated. They never admitted fear. R had just done both, and Morty wasn’t sure what to say in response.

Softly, he pressed his voice into the silence of the room, allowing his fingertips to continue to feel the gentle thrum beneath R’s chest, momentarily wishing that a R could be like THC and he could understand complicated emotions with a simple gesture of touch. He pressed his fingers into the seconds of time that passed between them.

“Hey uh, I uh… I think you’re different than the other Ricks.”

R’s gaze hesitantly met and held Morty’s with a flickering intensity. His hazy blue eyes smouldered beneath the smoke of his thoughts, and their unseen fire glowed against the dusty clover of Morty’s own, burning embers that glimmering with things unspoken.

“I’m full of metaphors and contradictions, Morty... There is no _‘different kind of Rick’_ … we’re all dark, really.”

In the solemn silence, broken and connected by the pulse of beating hearts, the pair continued to hold each other's gaze for a long uninterrupted moment, before R’s pulse rapidly quickend, and he spoke.

“Since you asked, kid, there _is_ something else I want from you.”

R pushed his hand against the carpet, sitting up quickly and closing the space between them. He leaned forward as his other hand pressed into Morty’s thigh to support his weight as he moved further into the boy's space.

Morty felt himself falling backwards in silent shock at the sudden closeness, before feeling a hand wrap around the back of his neck to catch him. Practiced fingertips slid up his neck and into the tresses of his hair, pulling Morty’s ear to rest against the brush of R’s lips, and the teen shivered at the sensation of R’s humid breath, as low baritones of desire vibrated a passionate request against the walls of his ear drum.

It resonated like captured smoke in the center of Morty’s being, leaving him breathless.

“I want you to call me ‘R’.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Art Credit** Mr. Sen. | Check out the Starry AU art gallery on Mastadon to see more art and drabbles related to this fic. 
> 
>  **Tomorrow Never Knows:** The lyrics were adapted from the book The Psychedelic Experience: A Manual Based on the Tibetan Book of the Dead by Timothy Leary (“Turn on, Tune In, Drop Out”) Richard Alpert (Be Here Now), and Ralph Metzner, which was in turn adapted from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Its backwards guitar parts marked the first recorded use of reversed sounds in a pop song. Music journalist Carol Clerk describes Revolver as having been "decisively informed by acid", following John Lennon and George Harrison's continued experimentation with the drug LSD in the spring of 1965. Through these shared experiences, the two musicians developed a fascination for Eastern philosophical concepts, particularly regarding the illusory nature of human existence. In popular culture, Revolver is widely viewed as the album on which Harrison came of age as a songwriter/recording artist.
> 
> George Harrison played the Sitar on "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" on the LP Rubber Soul in 1965, which became the first released Western pop song to feature the sitar. Harrison went on to play the tambura, a long-necked plucked lute, on both Revolver and Sgt Peppers. 
> 
> **About Pink Floyd:** Pink Floyd’s name was made of two blues band artists “Pink Anderson” _(You Don’t Know My Mind),_ and Floyd Council _(Runaway Man Blues)_ Breathe is opened by a sustained backwards piano chord, the slow paced guitar effect was achieved with a double necked steel lap guitar. Pink Floyd is generally categorized as a progressive rock band. A genre which was largely informed by the psychedelic movement. Progressive rock in turn, largely influenced hard rock. 
> 
> [ Pink Floyd band members, Syd Barrett and Roger Waters have a fuckin’ story. ](https://www.rollingstone.com/music/features/the-madness-majesty-of-pink-floyd-20070405) And R and Music Morty are going to explore it as the fic progresses. R idolizes Syd Barrett, often relating himself to the musician, and relates Roger to Morty. 
> 
> **R on Essentialism and Pessimism:** R studies Ricks through a lens of essentialism, similarly to how we think of human nature in general. R argues that there are inherent qualities that are unchangeable within a Rick, himself included, while Morty suggests that R is “A different kind of Rick.” 
> 
> While R’s perspective reflects a despairing pessimism – ideas of futility and inevitability towards his true nature, Morty presents a more optimistic point of view, and this fic will continue to explore how these character perspectives and philosophical viewpoints forward the plot.
> 
>  **R’s Sense of Touch & Sensory Experience:** [ Skin absorption is a thing, ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Absorption_\(skin\)) but to what extent your skin/fingers can absorb THC oils is up for debate. R is a character who relishes sensory experience, elevating his engagement with them to a form of worship, and demanding conscious indulgence in their sensual aspects. His rituals surrounding music and drug usage reflect this, often equating the experience to sexual ecstasy. 
> 
> **The 4 virtues and 20 rules of thumb:** [ go read it. It’s written in parabolic verse and is fantastic.](https://www.reddit.com/r/trees/comments/202chx/a_stoner_reveals_the_420_code_7/)


	5. I Should Have Worshipped Her Sooner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love’s a mind-altering substance just like any other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the songs for this fic in one spotify playlist: [ Crimson & Clover on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue/playlist/69x5YgmwyLdrcdUtgCrP6y)

Aware of the irony, R had found himself trapped in the unfortunate pattern of falling asleep and waking up to the thought of Morty. Each time, his name was held like a secret sweet nothing on the tip of R’s tongue as it trembled at the thought of the larger shift that such a small, seemingly innocuous change, known only to himself, had suggested.  

This morning in particular, R rose from a dream of such secrets. His morning erection was far from the familiar hard-on he had come to expect. This morning, it stirred him to waking, twitching and aching for the visions of R’s subconscious, needing release.

R's heart clenched with the powerful grip of a fist as he bit his lip and exhaled a series of heavy breaths that tapered into low strangled whines. He pressed a hand against his vibrating chest, before sliding it toward a breast, rolling his nipple between fingers while a free hand moved down beneath the sheets to take his pulsing cock, slick with precum, into the embrace of wanting fingers. R teasingly stretched his foreskin back, then reh-seathed himself as he began to pump the skin with gentle, teasing strokes. His thoughts returned to the images of the erotic dream which had ended far too soon, leaving him hard and wanting, and he chased the fading memory, willing the secret to replay over, and over, and over in his mind.

As R felt himself, he imagined that his hands were not his own, but that they, instead, belonged to the boy with clover eyes and crimson hair who had interrupted his life with a burning passion and, now, was also apparently setting fire to his dreamscape. He moaned softly as he allowed himself to indulge the mental images which flickered with independent life.

R couldn't remember the last time he had dreamed so vividly. He figured it was the result of his thoughts having been more active than usual. R had, in part, been expecting his thoughts to anxiously obsess over the source that had recently brought so much change into his life. What he hadn't expected were the accompanying thoughts of lust and desire.

He found himself enjoying, too much, the distinct physiological effect of feeling the hyper-stimulated rush of chemicals that came with his morning infatuation, and the addictive high coaxed him to indulge the unattainable fantasy from within the safety of his mind.

R thrust into his hand as he imagined a fantastic pair of perfectly soft crimson lips tenderly folding over the tip of his shaft, a blushing kiss that set fire across his cheeks, before sumptuously dipping to take his entire length.

“Oh...fuck!” R let out a pleasured gasp as his breath hitched. He rolled onto his stomach and rutted into the mattress as his hand reached behind himself to grope at the flesh of his ass. He pressed precum slicked fingertips against his entrance, imagining a soft, wet tongue pressing against him, asking for entry as imaginary hands smoothed over his ass and opened him.

“Unf, kid, fuck. Right there. F–fuck...fuck me, baby, cojeme...”

R purred a stream of heady whispers as he shifted himself backwards to press into his imagined partner, groping the flesh of his ballsack. He let out a desperate moan at feeling the pressure of fingertips against his opening, and needily thrust his weight into the mattress, feeling the textured sensation of friction momentarily relieve the painful ache of his cock.

It had been a while since he'd had his prostate fucked, and the dream had teased out the delicious memory of such a sensation. The partner in his mind’s eye entered and made love to him with deep, powerful thrusts. R curled his toes as he imagined the head of their cock sliding back and forth over the sensitive ball of nerves within him, and he clenched his muscles around the redhead’s imagined length, tightening his walls around the warm glow of his prostate as he shuddered.

“Mhhhmm...mmmm – Ahh!”

R buried his face into the pillow and allowed himself to spill his voice without restraint into the cotton’s noise barrier, losing a bit of control over himself as he allowed the person in red to continue to wreck him in the madness of mental masturbation.

He let his eyes roll into the back of his head as his mental state continued to deteriorate, focusing on the surging feelings of pleasure that had blurred his mind into a beautiful, burning, white-hot bliss of sensory overload. He heaved desperate and heady breaths as he reached beneath his body, barrelling towards the release of an orgasmic high. His voice choked out the name of his secret, manifesting it in the physical world, as he felt his body curl into itself alongside the powerful release. It painfully spilled from him, coating his hands as he whimpered in relief.

“M-m-mmorrr. Morty!”

R swore as he caught his breath, panting heavily as he let his weight fall back against the surface of his mattress. His unending stream of thoughts returned to him, and anxiety crept in, settling into the place where the afterglow of arousal had left him. Still breathing heavily, he carefully sat up, and pushed the wet tresses of hair from his eyes with his forearm.  

He cautiously glanced around his space, ridiculously listening for signs that he had been caught red-handed in the act of an obvious transgression from the privacy of his mind.

Then, he felt himself begin to panic, not because he had just jerked himself off to a person who he had previously, firmly, decided _not_ to jerk off to, but because he wasn't panicking as much as he thought he should be panicking by now – even as he accounted for the high of dopamine and oxytocin he was experiencing.

R acutely understood how quickly he could fall into patterns of mental distress which would lead to a nervous breakdown. He'd accepted long ago the type of regimented lifestyle that he must demand of himself if he wanted to maintain a stable life of questionable comfort. But somewhere over the past week of spending time with Morty, he had lost his well-honed ability to predict a lifetime of his own reactions. At first, it was a mild annoyance, but as R continued to fail at knowing himself, mentally bracing said self for the panicked breakdown which still had not yet come, the awareness surrounding his lack of reaction terrified him to his core.

He sat still on the edge of his bed, fearful of the larger shift that such a small, seemingly innocuous change, known only to himself, had suggested.   

 

_Don’t think about it._

 

R rose and went about his morning routine, irritatingly frustrated at the relentless mental interruptions which had continued to entice him to play with the fire of his private thoughts. He stepped out of his storefront, mug in hand, and glanced down the street. 

He’d never really spent the effort of his thoughts to acknowledge how close his storefront was to Morty Town. It had always more-or-less been a single neighborhood to him. Before Mortys had arrived on the Citadel, it was all just Sanchez Heights. It was only later that it had been cut in half to accommodate and create space for the influx of Rickless Mortys. He stood in silent contemplation, trying to determine, from memory, what had made the Morty as of late stand out so vibrantly. R passively wondered how many Rickless Mortys had passed through his store, unacknowledged, before _him_. He had never taken the time to selflessly consider that nearly all the Mortys in his neighboring town had lost their grandfathers.

Once again, he stopped himself from continuing to think about the teen, deciding to turn his attention towards Rick and Silent Morty with a wave. They looked nervous. That was never a good sign.

“Hey man, I know you don't like to hear this, but there was a sting in Sanchez Heights – product’s gonna be a bit low until our suppliers can make up for the loss.”

R let out an irritated grumble. While he appreciated their honesty, and the gesture was the very demonstration of why he preferred to buy from them, he would have preferred that they lied, or at the very least failed to mention the things outside of his locus of control. It only unnecessarily stressed him out. They knew that, however.

The Citadel ran on the unlimited resource of Ricks exploiting their infinite selves. Weed was criminalized, not because Ricks were waging some sort of “war on drugs”, but because, true to the form of a failed utopia, a single Rick in the multiverse directly benefited from its criminalization. If anything existed in the Citadel that could bring any amount of happiness to a Rick, it was near guaranteed to be regulated under some sort of interdimensional profiteering system, because deeper down, a Rick’s self-hatred would always win out over his desire to see a single version of himself find any amount of happiness, regardless of how small. R wouldn't have been surprised if all Mortys, like weed, fell under a similar, highly regulated, criminalized system.

 _Dime con quién andas_... Tell me who you walk with, and I’ll tell you who you are. R took a moment to breathe, admiring the soft red hues of the artificial sunrise that caressed his storefront.

“Look, I don't wanna know, and you know I don’t care about the details of how you run your backpack bodega. I just wanna know if you have some good shit for me.”

The knowledge of a weed shortage should have also stressed him out more than it had, and R frowned at another inaccurate prediction of himself. He shrugged it off. It was probably just the lingering afterglow of the morning. He decided that, for the moment, there was nothing to be done about it but to proceed through his day with caution.

“Don't even trip about supply dawg, after that one time, we’re gonna take care of our best customer first, man. It's just gonna cost a bit more for a little while... supply and demand, amirite?”

“Heh, yeah well, my ‘quarter a day keeps the crazy away’ isn’t changing anytime soon.”

R facetiously joked about his ritualistic dependence on the drug, which Rick and Silent Morty were clearly trying to take advantage of. They had purposefully told him that bit about the shortage to make R more desperate and soften the deal of pushing a higher price. They were in business for a reason. They knew their trade. He shouldn't have been so easily swayed, because it would only encourage them to keep their prices raised on him, but he didn't want to ruin his unusually good mood this morning, nor risk a conversation that could trigger the impending nervous breakdown he woke up waiting for.

R paused for a moment to again consider his mood, which had remained unsettlingly calm.

He shrugged. His current plan was to continue enjoying whatever high this was until he had to crash and face the music.   

_Don't think about it_

“Nice, man, glad to keep your business. Just an extra ten bones, and we're holding everything but hard drugs and your cock.”

R smiled at the joke as he mulled over his selection of drugs, considering the strain of weed he most wanted to escape and make love with.

Love, and the chemical reactions that constituted it, probably counted as the hardest of highly addictive substances, hitting hard, then slowly fading into a cold, lingering loneliness.

R couldn’t help but think of his morning fix as a free sample of sorts – his mind dealing out the rush of chemicals precisely for the purpose of emotional entrapment, and like a moth to the hypnotic flame he closed his eyes and returned to vibrant, passionate patterns of thought surrounding the burning color, indulging the music from his dream.

He smacked his lips, and decided on the perfect bud, not quite ready to come down from his high.

“...Give me some of that Rojo Rickbone.”

 

 

 _Hell, what’s the matter with your head – yeah!_  
_Hell, what’s the matter with your mind and your sign and a –  ohohoh!_  
_Hell, nothin’ the matter with your head baby find it, come on and find it_  
_Hell, with it baby cause you're fine and you're mine and you look so divine._

 

_Come and get your love_

 

Rick gave a knowing side glance to Silent Morty, who fished out a quarter. The bag swirled with the dust of a loose red pollen while merlot colored buds shifted in the bag. A gendered herb at its genetic core, the male weed plants carried pollen sacs, and as such didn’t produce smokable herb – that was, until some Rick got randy enough to engineer a male strain that flowered with pollen filled buds. It was a fuckin’ euphoric experience.  

R gently parted the lips of the bag, and slowly, carefully brought it to his nose. His eyes softly closed and, with a gentle inhale, the record store owner drank in the lush, bold, sweet scent of ripe summer strawberries. His breath hitched and he licked his lips, imagining a taste.

Rick’s teasing chuckle interrupted his buying ritual. He opened an eye and glanced to the side to see his dealer not even bothering to hide the knowing grin.

“Hehe, special plans tonight, R?”

R’s thoughts wandered, obligingly, to Morty, and the record store owner caught them at the color, frowning in response to the knowingly invasive question.

“Fuck off."

He flipped off the duo as he re-sealed the bag, then tossed it in the air before turning back towards his store, humming to the song in his head. He settled behind the glass counter to light up his red-fire wake and bake to a glass bubbler and, with a contented sigh, R exhaled a stream of crimson smoke into the store, savoring the compound effect of adding the vigorous sativa to the already passionate chemical high that he had woken in the midst of.

Four hours later, right on time, Morty walked into the store and waved to him.

R jumped to his feet to greet Morty while trying to hide the smile that involuntarily spread across his face. He stared absently toward the redhead who now glowed with a welcoming presence of familiarity – a feeling that should have caused much more alarm to R than it currently had, but he reminded himself that he was trying not to think about it. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and rocked in place on his bare feet in an attempt to conceal the obviously exaggerated actions of what could only be described as a budding psychological crush.

Again, R understood it was a high. A highly subjective trip because his body had decided to arbitrarily pump dopamine and oxytocin through his system at the subtlest swelling thought of red, but fuck if he didn’t relish the ride. He wanted the rebellious redhead to continue to stoke those sweet, slow burning chemical-coals in the recesses of his mind.

“Hey R. How’ve you been?”

Morty’s mellifluous voice greeted the record store owner by name, and for a moment, R felt weightless. He rode the high for a few rare seconds before grounding himself, becoming aware that he had been staring at Morty in silence and had possibly even licked his lips like a fucking creep.

Fuck. Looking at the real deal was so much more potent than his imaginations, which was a compliment, comparatively thinking. He continued to stare at Morty, deep in thought about exactly _how_ he should greet him. The word “Morty” after this morning’s masturbation seemed too hot for his tongue. He blushed at the thought.

“...Hey, kid,” he managed, reminding himself, once again, to properly compartmentalize the waking dream before him.

“Need any help in the shop today?”

R continued to internally chide himself. He’d been here before. Flirting with the danger of change but never fully embracing it. While R was fine with running away with his imaginations, he drew a hard line at the boundary of the physical reality of it.

That level of change in his life would be the absolute tipping point for a complete mental breakdown. One he wasn't sure he'd be able to return from. He quickly willed himself away from his thoughts, but then reached for his bubbler to assist him.

He was getting too high today, but he wasn’t ready to come down. Not yet.  

“Totes malotes, give me like…ten more stoner minutes to finish this bowl – my fuckin’ cherry’s been burning for a- a good – a minute too long now so…”

Rick brought the piece to his mouth and took a deep hit. He didn’t have to worry about hogging it when it was his shit, but at this rate he was going to burn through his shit before Church. He grunted as he held his breath, fighting his body’s desire to exhale as he held out the piece in offering to Morty.

Morty glowed with another smile and tossed his messenger bag onto the couch in the lounge, before approaching R. He passed on the pipe with an “aw jeez” and a chuckle, but R knew he would. He never smoked weed with R outside of Church.

“Have you ever smoked too much weed?”

The record store owner exhaled and coughed for a few moments before hacking up a mucous sounding chunk to swallow it, taking note of the visible cringe on Morty’s lip.

 _“Too much_ is a glaringly subjective qualifier, kid. I’m just offering the peace pipe – don’t have to take it, but I’m not doing any work in the store until I finish off my afternoon delight. I’ve got a– a good high going today and don’t wanna come down from it.”

R growled to clear his throat and decided to set his pipe down in favor of reaching for his glass of water. He reached for his bag of nuggets, deciding to save the remainder for his Church session with Morty.  

“A~actually kid, come outside with me. I need more weed, and it’s time I formally introduce you to my dealers anyways.”

Morty followed R to the storefront and Rick and Silent Morty looked up from the boombox they were dancing in front of. Rick recognized Morty and smiled as R gestured to him.

“This Morty’s gonna buy some weed from you occasionally. Earth weed only, cause I’m teaching him how to smoke.”

Morty shot a quick glance at R in protest, but R waved a dismissive hand at him. Rick grinned at Morty before looking back to R with a raised eyebrow.

“Ye~ah, moving up in the world, R. When’d you get a Morty, man!?”

R frowned at the statement and rolled his eyes sarcastically. So what if he had an obvious infatuation for the kid – it didn’t automatically mean that R suddenly owned him.

“Ricks don’t _have_ Mortys – It’s a free Citadel.”

Silent Morty snickered as R turned back to Morty to clarify.

“Granted, I’m not saying the capitalist system the Shitadel operates on doesn’t exploit the hell out you kids and assign you out like you’re some kind of coveted second-class citizens…just, in theory, you’re autonomous and belong to no Rick.”

“Aw jeez, R, y-you really think so?”

“Kid, that– that shouldn’t even be a fuckin’ question.”

“Oooh lala, someone’s trying to get laid,” Rick teased and Silent Morty continued to suppress a fit of laughter.

Morty blushed at the tease, looking at R, before quickly looking away from the pair. R changed the subject onto the conversation of another purchase. He reached out to the eighth that Silent Morty already had at the ready for him.

“Sure you don’t want to up the daily amount, R? You’ve been burning through pretty consistently.”

R paused before shaking his head and opening the door to his store, insisting that Morty walk through the doorway before him. He was grateful that Rick and Silent Morty had come to understand him enough over the years that he no longer needed to explain.  

“Got it, you’re not changing anytime soon.”  

Morty leaned against the counter, picking up R’s tablet. The device controlled the music playing in the store, and the record store owner frowned at Morty’s audacity. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly lost himself in studying, a bit too intently, the boy’s hands as they slid across the tablet and pressed into the screen’s surface – _Fuck. How high was he right now?_

“I like your friends. They’re nice.”

R glanced through the window. Rick and Silent Morty were visibly gesturing toward him. Rick turned to twerk against the glass as his silent partner tried to pull him away while laughing. R flipped his dealers off through the transparent barrier and turned his attention back to Morty.

“Don’t be fooled, they’re my dealers – and that’s an important distinction, kid.”

Morty glanced his way with a knowing smile to interrupt his absent staring. _Shit, was he being that fucking obvious or was Morty just taking advantage of how high he was._

“What’s on the playlist for today?”

R paused to mentally instruct himself how to lie. 

“I woke up angry at the powers that be on the Citadel…so I’m doing something illegal, and vibing to some mellow, but politically charged latin and alternative shit.”

“Jeez, R, that’s what you do everyday…” 

Morty’s eyes caught the plate of brownie-cookies resting on the counter, and he reached out to grab one, storing it between his lips so that he could use both hands on the tablet. R blushed, realizing that he enjoyed, far too much, watching the sight of the cookie bob between those lips. He silently watched the redhead savor the sweetness of the cookie until it fell apart in his mouth and he swallowed.

Fuck. Against his best intentions, R’s mind actively seared the details of the moment in the privacy of his thoughts. Morty had said something. What was it?

“Gotta learn to take a chance on the value of the totally obvious, Morty. Everyday is a good life.”

“Are you gonna let me pick a song today? You said one out of every ten... Why don’t you ever listen to Radio Rick’s station?”

 _Fuck_. Why did he say stupid shit like that when he was high. Morty helped himself to a second cookie, and R absently wondered if/when he should intervene.

The kid was so full of questions today and the display of energy had left him leaning on the counter resting his head in his palm, smiling towards nothing in particular while trying to give Morty his undivided attention. Then his thoughts caught up with his actions. He frowned at the name.

“Because fuck that guy… Also, I said you’d _earn_ the right to choose one out of every 10 songs _after_ you packed your first bowl.”

Morty groaned in playful frustration and R actively tried to unhear the noise. Generally, when he smoked his weight in green, he couldn’t remember shit. He had the feeling that he was going to remember in luxurious detail everything about this Morty, though, because he couldn't help but want to focus on him, and doing something like that while high had a tendency to disappear everything else. He watched the rest of the world fade away as all of his senses singularity focused on the redhead.  

“...and before you call me on my shit, I'm totally falling on the it's my weed excuse – but fuck you, it's my weed.”

“So teach me, then.” Morty threw out between bites, and R swore under his breath before snatching the partially eaten cookie from Morty’s hand. If the both of them got seriously high, someone was going to make regrettable life decisions – probably him.

“I'm planning on giving you a real treat, today, Morty, but if you keep eating these space cookies you’re not gonna be able to have some fun with me later."

Morty choked at R’s tease. “Wait! These are–”

“–Some potent fuckin edibles.” R shook the cookie between them, before continuing. “Life’s been a bit more off than usual, and I’ve been needing a body high with more of a built-in time-release.”

“Aw jeez, R, Why didn’t you say something–”  

“I didn't tell you to help yourself kid, but you fuckin’ did – serves you right.”

Morty looked genuinely panicked, and for a moment R regretted not warning him earlier. He caught his attention before the kid could panic off the deep-end of his own thoughts.  

“Hey – kid, relax. They’re not that strong. Worst case scenario they'll kick in 6-8 hours later and you’re gonna get couch-locked. Best case scenario, after your shift at the Morty Mart, you’re gonna go home for the best night’s sleep you’ve had in fuckin’ years, but i-if you’re that worried about it, go up-chuck ‘em in the toilet.”

R moved to reach for Morty’s hand to reassure the teen but stopped himself. There was an unspoken physical distance that existed in the spaces between them outside of Church, and in the past few weeks, R had discovered that they sat in his mind, much like his inability to predict a lifetime of his own reactions – which was to say that the thoughts were as frustrating as they were nuanced.

Outside of Church, R interacted with a different version of the Morty he had gotten to know within it, and after experiencing those rare glimpses of moments where the redhead felt comfortable enough to be himself, everything else felt dispiritingly inauthentic.

Instead of reaching out for Morty’s hand, R caught his eyes with a playful smirk and bit into the cookie. A gesture of joining him in stoner solidarity.

“Listen, I’m already high as fuck today, so no promises, but I’ll do my best to be here with you the entire time.”

Morty seemed to relax at R’s less than reassuring statement and softly nodded. R couldn’t resist after seeing the assured expression melt across his features, and reached out to ruffle the tuft of red hair.

“You’re gonna be fi~ne.”

Morty smirked at R’s verbal exaggerations, before pressing a button on the tablet. The low, husky drawl of a Rick’s voice floated over the store speakers, accompanying the fade out of a Bruno Mars song.

 

 

> _“– I know, I know, been getting a lot of requests for that song. Miami, baby, I always aim to please my favorite fan, and here at the station we hope that sugar daddy of yours is gonna be singing ‘That’s What I Like’ as much as you.”_

“–Dammit kid, What the _fuck_ is this Rickhole doing on my soundwaves – Give me that!”  

R’s high quickly dropped as he frowned at hearing the voice. He turned toward Morty, and snatched the tablet from his hand, expelling a sound of avoidance and muttered expletives. He stopped himself from changing the music back to his playlist, however, wanting a moment to luxuriate in his feelings of spite for Radio.

 

 

> _“...Ok, Citadel listeners, this next message comes from, you guessed it – another anonymous Morty – Let’s call this one Thirsty Morty. He writes:_
> 
> _“‘Radio Rick and DJ Morty, how do you know if a Rick likes you in that way. I think I’m just imagining things, but sometimes, the way he looks at me leaves me breathless, and I don't know what to do. How do I know for sure.’_
> 
> _“– Damn, this Morty is thirsty as fu~ck!”_

The voice over the speakers laughed alongside his partner from the broadcasting room.

“–Okay, m-my bad, let’s put your playlist back on.”

Morty tried to snatch the tablet back from R, who effortlessly pulled it out of reach, teasing the teen with a curious glance. Although Morty acted different around R outside of Church, they had still become more familiar around each other over the past few weeks. R relished the moments where Morty’s characteristic nervousness returned, and he enjoyed, too much, getting a rise out of the boy just to see his face flush.

 

_Fuck, red was such a good color on him._

 

R, intrigued by the thought of seeing Morty’s flustered reaction to Radio Rick’s answer – who in addition to being known for _accidentally_ fucking his partners while on the air, was known for his bold statements and penchant for hyperbole – was also smart enough to understand the all too serendipitous timing of Morty cashing in on his _one out of every ten songs_ to tune into the radio station during fan mail hour.

He allowed Morty the kindness of feigned ignorance about who _Thirsty Morty_ really was. But Thirsty Morty hadn't known that Radio Rick and R had a past, or more accurately a summer fling that burned like the sun – before collapsing in on itself like the star it had always been.

Hearing his voice was a well-timed reminder of why R remained firm in his desire to only entertain fantasies of lust and romance from the privacy of his own mind.

However, since he had serendipitously found himself tuning in to his ex’s voice, R wanted to indulge it a bit further. He pushed Morty's shoulder playfully with a tone of curiosity. “Hold on, kid, let’s just see where this goes.”

The voice on the radio continued to speak to the anonymous Morty.

 

 

> _“Okay Thirsty, the good news is that your Rick’s probably into you in that way… doesn't sound like you’re imagining things – You ever heard of eye fucking?”_

Another chorus of laughter. R smirked and leaned against the counter, enjoying the red of Morty’s blush as they continued to listen.

 

 

> _“The bad news: this sounds like a Rick who likes to take things re~al fuckin’ slow. I dunno, but if you ask me, it sounds like you have a left-handed Rick on your hands.”_

“Oh fuck me!” R interjected with a roll of his eyes at the speakers, continuing to bitch under his breath. Morty shot a careful, curious glance in his direction.

 

 

> _“Here's some advice. If you want to know for sure, why don’t you try taking the lead with him?”_

“Pffft, you would say that.”

“Wait, R, were you and Radio Ric–?” R waved a hand in his direction with a quick series of shushing noises, cutting him off to listen to the speakers uninterrupted. 

 

 

> _“Well, Thirsty, wherever you are in the Citadel today. I hope you and your left-handed Rick are tuning in. Give him a nice, slow eye fucking for us here at the station...”_

 

 

 _Dammit, he was still good at choosing songs._  

A riff of spanish guitar notes played over the airwaves, and Morty’s face perked up. R glared at his tablet, frowning as he considered that the word _despacito_ was the exact opposite of what had happened between himself and the radio host.

“I love this song!” Morty exclaimed in excitement at the recognition.

 

 _Sí, sabes que ya llevo un rato mirándote_ _  
_ _(Yes, you know that I’ve been looking at you for a long time)_  

 _Tengo que bailar contigo hoy_ _  
_ _(I must dance with you today)_

 

“Kid, do you even know what this song is fuckin’ saying?”

“I uh… I dunno, something about slow dancing?”

 

 _Vi que tu mirada ya estaba llamándome_ _  
_ _(I saw that the look in your eyes was calling me)_

 _Muéstrame el camino que yo voy  
_ _(Lead the way)_

 

Morty grabbed his wrist and gave it a tug.

“All that matters is if you feel it or not, right?”

Morty rose from behind the counter and pulled R to the lounge area at the center of the store. R supposed it doubled as his living room, surrounded by free standing racks of records and wall mounted record shelves. Morty was about to begin dancing, but froze in place as his confidence left him in the span of seconds. R set the tablet on the couch and smirked at him.

“What’s the matter? Not feeling it anymore?”

 

 _Ya, ya me está gustando más de lo normal_  
_(Now, I’m already liking it more than usual)_

 _Todos mis sentidos van pidiendo más_  
_(All of my senses are asking for more)_

 _Esto hay que tomarlo sin ningún apuro_  
_(We cannot do this in a rush)_

 

Morty didn't answer, but instead blushed and rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. With a grin, R watched the red of the kid’s face slowly spread its way across his cheeks and flush into the rim of his ears. R stepped closer.

 

 _Despacito, Quiero respirar tu cuello despacito_ _  
_ _(Slowly, I want to breathe in your neck slowly)_

 _Deja que te diga cosas al oído  
__(Let me murmur things in your ear)_  

 _Para que te acuerdes si no estás conmigo_ _  
_ _(So that you remember if you’re not with me)_

 _Despacito, Quiero desnudarte a besos despacito  
_ _(Slowly, I want to undress you in kisses slowly)_

 

“Did you wanna dance, or what?”

“I don’t know if I – I shouldn’t...I can’t.”

Morty shot a quick glance at R, his earlier burst of confidence having left him completely, too nervous to answer, and looking regretful.

 

 _Quiero ver bailar tu pelo_ _  
_ _(I want to see your hair dance)_

 _Quiero ser tu ritmo  
_ _(I want to be your rhythm)_

 

R took Morty’s hand, lifting it with a feather-light grip. He ran a thumb across the soft skin, actively suppressing his desire to press his lips against it. The thought made them burn with a raw feeling.   

Even through the overstimulated high of marijuana-clouded inhibitions, R understood that he shouldn’t lead the kid on. Not when he had zero intention to have anything real with him. That was the mistake he’d made before with Radio. He wouldn’t make it again.  

He held Morty at arms length in perfect stillness as the rhythm of the summer song danced around them.   

“You never told me, Morty, What do they call you on the Citadel?”

R continued to nervously caress a thumb across Morty’s hand as he asked the question. He didn't want _Thirsty Morty_ to stick in his mind, courtesy of his ex. Morty shrugged with an indifferent gesture, still unmoving.

“I usually get called Red-shirt Morty.”

R smiled. He did invoke the thought of red. He laughed through his high.

“No offense, but, what a dumb fuckin’ name. Like, what does that even mean? That– that the most interesting thing about you is the color of your shirt? Some fuckin’ Rick give you that name?”

“–My Rick, he…”

Fuck. Of course he did. R frowned, looking away from Morty.

“Shit, I’m sorry, kid. I didn't–”

“It's okay...since he… well, I don't think Red-shirt really fits me anymore. After he...after he...he uh – well, all I had were these records…”

R glanced at the red shirt Morty was wearing in quiet contemplation. It looked well worn, but now its age carried a weight of unquestionable significance.

“That the red-shirt you were named after?”

“...Yeah”

“How long’ve you had it?” R asked in a roundabout way, how long his original Rick had been dead.

“A long time…”

R swayed gently to the music, encouraging them to dance together. He could tell by Morty’s demeanor that he was uncomfortable with the subject, and he wanted to distract him from whatever unpleasant thoughts were playing in his mind.

“Bailame...”

The pair rocked together for a moment before Morty started moving in earnest. R swayed next to him and lifted their hands, encouraging a spin, but Morty slipped after bumping against the coffee table and flailed toward the floor, pulling R down with him.

Surprised at his own quick reactions despite the shit ton of weed he’d smoked, R pulled Morty tightly into him, wrapping a hand around Morty’s head to cradle him into his chest as he spun to throw himself toward the ground first, using his body to protect the kid from the hard impact. He swore as their combined weight thudded against the thin carpet on hardwood. Morty had frozen, before quickly looking at R’s pained expression.

“A-are uh, you okay?”

The quick, reactionary movements set his mind into a small fit of vertigo, and R grounded himself by feeling the warmth of a body pressed against him as the room spun. He groaned due to the mixture of overstimulated sensations, and rubbed a hand across Morty’s back, considering if maybe he should have let the kid take the fall instead of trying to catch him.

“Ugh, you might be right kid.”

  
_Quiero respirar tu cuello despacito_  
_(I want to breathe your neck slowly)_

 _Deja que te diga cosas al oído_  
_(Let me whisper things in your ear)_

 

“I might be too old to toke as much weed as I have today.” 

He caught the green of Morty’s eyes as a grin spread across his face, and the duo broke into shared laughter. R fell silent, absently watching a sober Morty laugh on top of him in one of those rare glimpses of authenticity, and savored it for a long moment, until he felt himself begin to swell with desire, as the friction and heat pressed against his jeans, and blood continued to pool into his hardening erection. Fuck.  

The teen fell silent and swallowed hard when he caught R staring like a fucking creep, then sucked in a stream of air as the space between them grew heavy. He chewed his lip in nervousness and blushed again, undoubtedly feeling R’s hardening length press into his stomach.

Gently, R wrapped his hands around Morty’s arms to carefully push him away as visions of pulling him into a deep desirous kiss crept into his mind.

“...I’m way too fuckin’ high for this.”

Morty mutually understood the sudden awkward tension, and quickly pulled away to sit on the couch, wedging hands between fidgety legs, and his head bowed into himself almost as if in prayer. He nervously pushed the hair out of his eyes with a careful side glance to the record store owner, who had risen from the floor to follow him.

R remained standing next to him and, apprehensive, Morty’s eyes darted around his surroundings as the song died on the speakers. His nervous fingers scrubbed across the length of his hair, and fell to rest on the flesh of his shoulder to tap out a morse code of unspoken thought. The record store owner attempted to change the subject, sensing Morty’s now palpable nerves.

“So...I’ve got some records I need to re-shelve–”

Morty cautiously glanced at R before looking away from him and chewing his lip once more.

“Hey R...are you...left-handed?”

R frowned, then huffed, unnecessarily defensive at the insinuation. Morty had unintentionally stepped on a tender spot surrounding his bitterness for the voice on the radio. The radio host had been the one to gossip that porn video of him, literally drunk off his ass, and Robot Rick, an old friend, into viral fame, and ever since, “Left-handed Rick” had become a Citadel colloquialism to describe Ricks with a raging sub streak. His eyes narrowed toward Morty before he irritatingly groaned at the statement.

“I’m ambidextrous Morty. All Ricks are. Jeezus, just because– just because I have a preference for my left hand, doesn't mean I also have some fuckin’ proclivity for taking it up the ass – It’s unfounded gossip on the Citadel, and it doesn't mean shit.”

Morty quickly tensed at R’s response, and his eyes darted across him to quickly read his expressions and body language.

“Aw, jeez, I’m sorry R, I didn’t mean to...”

Morty’s expression transformed at the perceived awareness of allowing himself to become too comfortable in the presence of a Rick. His face contorted into a panicked overreaction at only having slightly, and unintentionally, upset R about something he had absolutely no control over – he couldn’t have known about the record store owner's disdain for being called left-handed.

R frowned as he continued to bitterly assess the situation. There was no doubt in his mind that this kid had been around too many shitty Ricks on the Citadel. An agitated voice shouldn’t cause such a shitty fucking reaction.

“Hey, don’t worry about it…”

 

 

He softened his expression and changed the tone of his voice, leaning over Morty on the couch, resting a knee on the fabric beside him. He watched Morty’s thoughts visibly freeze, his movements falling still when he looked up at R, who rested a hand on the edge of the couch behind Morty’s head, and lifted a palm to press against Morty’s cheek. He held their eyes together, while allowing his thumb to caress the warm skin just beneath their shared gaze.   

“It’s just like saying Morty’s with gypsy-green, clover eyes...”

The redhead’s face bloomed red at the realization that R had turned the tables of the insinuation, pointing out something specific about the teen. He gripped R’s overshirt as the older man plucked the rose-tinted glasses from Morty’s face, hooking them on the teen’s shirt.

“Are passionate, creative… intelligent...”

R continued as he reached out to pinch Morty’s chin, tilting it upwards to more indulgently take in the color. He further leaned over the boy’s frame to indulge in their luminescence under the natural light of the record store, exhaling a contented sigh, admiring how well the quiet vibrance of the clover hues complimented the soft glowing embers of the confident crimson red. It was a slow dance of swirling colors in his mind and R was stricken by their lively dissonance. His thumb absently traced the line of the teen’s red lips as they moved against him to speak.

“R?”

 

 _She lay in the shadow of a wave_  
_Hazy were the visions overplayed_  
_Sunshine in her eyes_  
_But moonshine made her cry everytime_

 

Captivated by Morty’s incandescent presence, R had somewhat lost himself in his moment of murmurations, and through his superbly clouded mind, he passively heard himself softly speaking sweet nothings to the redhead. He felt the bright node of his swelling erection stretch against the fabric of his jeans, glowing at the base with sensuous heat. A secret thought slipped out from his mind when R’s eyelids fell shut, and he fell into his imaginations as they brushed against the sensation of heaven, or at least something divine.  

“Green is the color of eternity – You’re on fire, kid, full of light and life – Like the best kush.”   

 

 _Green is the colour of her kind_  
_Quickness of the eye_  
_Deceives the mind_  
_Envy is the bond between  
__The hopeful and the damned_  

 

_Don’t think about it._

 

He was too much under the influence, and quickly pulled away from Morty, dropping his hand as if he had just been burnt by Morty’s passionate gaze, hating himself for the confused expression that was playing out across his face at the gesture.

 “Sorry kid, I’m– I got a bit… lost myself for a bit there.”  

Morty didn’t answer him, but only looked more confused at the apology. The sativa he had been smoking had a tendency to turn him the fuck on – at least that was what he was currently telling himself, as he blamed the weed and re-established the distance that existed between them outside of Church.

“You’re a green-eyed cat Morty, all I’m saying is you have a lot more qualities than a red fuckin’ shirt.” R carefully sat back onto the couch with an intentional distance between them.

“I... I guess you're right, R.”

R got the sense that Morty didn’t fully agree with his last statement, but had agreed with him nonetheless. He internally decided to drop the conversation, but Morty attempted to continue it after a short pause.

“R-’Red-shirt’…’Red’ never feels right, because it’s not him saying it anymore...It’s other Ricks.”

 _“Red-shirt Morty”_ sounded like such a degrading name, but it seemed like Morty had kept it, wearing the accompanying red shirt as some sort of a display of mourning. That Rick was long gone, however.

“All I have left are some of his records... I don't know about music… but I wanna learn. I like music a lot...It’s helped me figure things out.” Morty grabbed his arm in a timid response, and R frowned, wondering if he still wasn’t fully ready to move on.

Since Morty had brought the conversation up, the record store owner might as well continue to push the idea. While Morty’s original Rick seemed to hold a large amount of influence over him, even in death, R held no such emotions, or sensitivity towards his grandfather.

“Then you should tell everyone you're something like Music Morty – choose your own name. There's no law in the Citadel that says you can't. Even if there was – you shouldn’t give a fuck about its shit laws.”

“Okay, R. Maybe I’ll try that. I am, uh, already smoking weed, I guess.”

“Hey! No weed high-roading, kid. I spin my life around my own personal record of ethics. The only illegal in the Citadel is within the constructs of my own morality.”

Morty silently nodded and R grew irritated, feeling like he was suddenly talking to a brick wall. Maybe the largest contributing factor was that they were both just really high whenever they were in Church together, but it felt like something more than even the conversation about Morty’s original Rick.

Outside of the smoke room, Morty continually came off as high-strung to R, and after enjoying the boy’s presence when he was relaxed, confident, and talkative, R found himself irritated at Morty’s pre-emptive personality adjustment in the spaces outside of Church.

While it made the idea of Church covetous – that within those walls, a version of Morty that the redhead did not allow to just anyone, existed – it frustrated R to no end, to be that much more aware of how meticulously Morty monitored his behavior outside of it. He reiterated to himself that the teen had been hanging around too many shitty Ricks, but all Ricks were shitty, and if R were being truly honest, he was just watching the natural progression of a Morty in general. The thought pissed him off.

R placed the fault on his collective self, simultaneously acknowledging that he wasn’t personally doing the kid any favors with his mixed bag of signals today.

“Listen. I’m too high to know what I’m talking about, today, kid.”

“...Should I call myself Music Morty?”

R’s heart stopped in his chest at the question, in a mixture of possessiveness, arousal, and frustration, and he answered too quickly.  

“I don’t care what you call yourself, kid, look – identity is a form of wear. While it's nice to show up dressed in red or whatever for someone, it's fucking liberating to pull your shirt off every once in a while – but you don’t just take your clothes off for anyone. You do it for yourself and that’s what makes it such a fuckin’ rush.”   

That explanation could have been given without the references to clothing being removed – sexual frustration. That was the word he had been trying to think of earlier. Fuck. Morty rose from the couch and walked to the record store shelves pensively, and R followed him, curious at what he was suddenly up to.

“So you mean…I could put on something like...this?”

Morty held a Bob Marley album against his face, and R was taken completely aback for a moment, before breaking out in a raucous laughter, pointing at the display in front of him, unable to help himself at the utter ridiculousness of it.

“I mean...yeah.”

  

 

Morty handed him a record sleeve with a coy smile. “Here, try this one on.”

“Trying to tell me something, kid – That I can’t trace time?”

R grinned at the irony of the Bowie’s _Changes_ LP, twirling a toothpick in his mouth. He lifted it against his face, nonetheless, participating in Morty’s game.

Morty sputtered into a rolling laughter at the Bowie-Rick hybrid. R got a bit too self-conscious for his own taste and tossed the album to the side, searching for an album for the hot-headed Morty.

He softly smiled to himself as he flipped through lines of records, continuing to listen to Morty’s laugh behind him. There was something indescribable about hearing his laughter. In understanding that Morty was able to laugh in such a way, without substances of any kind. He beckoned Morty over as he located the LP he was looking for. It was perfect.  

“Hold still, kid”

 

 

R balanced John Lennon’s _Imagine_ on Morty's shoulder with a smug and satisfied grin. He teased the boy with a snicker.

“Yep, total fuckin’ match.”

R admired how well Morty wore Lennon-esque rose-tinted glasses, and for a moment of his high that effortlessly pulled memories and senses to the forefront of his mind, the record store owner re-experienced the elusive, ethereal feeling. A moment when he saw the world as if it were an idyllic Beatles’ song. When he wasn’t afraid to believe in something, or imagine its possibility.

He moved closer, and reached out for it, pulling the record away to reveal the genuine person behind the music playing in his subconscious. He reached out to the red glasses still tucked on the hem of his red shirt, and returned them to Morty’s face with a smile of wistful warm impermanence.

“You wear dreams well, kid.”

He patted Morty’s cheek and glanced out the window toward his audience, who quickly busied themselves at being caught watching the two. He looked back at Morty and softly teased.

“You’re like my squatters out front. When did I give you so much permission to interrupt my life?”

The redhead avoided the record store owner’s rhetorical gaze.

“Can we... Is it time for Church?”

R's eyes remained trained on Morty as he considered that maybe he had indulged and supplemented the high of his infatuation too far, but he couldn’t help that he wanted to imagine  another hit.

"Mmm, tell me what you like... I’ll light up anyway you want... wanna make sure it's good for you."

Morty fiercely blushed at the insinuated flirtation, and R hummed at the dopamine pumping through his system in sync to the blood flushing crimson across Morty’s face, color itself elevated to a high.

 

_Fuck. Red was such a good color on him._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Art Commission Credit:** Sketchy Mess Adventures  | Check out the Starry AU art gallery on Mastadon to see more art and drabbles related to this fic. 
> 
>  **Ricksonas and Identity on the Citadel, “To be is to be perceived”:** R challenges Morty to fuck the Rickstyem and name himself. Earlier in Ch1, he observes that it’s an unspoken rule that a Rick is named based on how other Ricks and Mortys perceive them, and usually their perception is shallow and pedantic, only reflecting the things a Rick does, rather than who he is. In R’s perception, naming oneself is a very counterculture gesture. 
> 
> **The Starry Citadel AU is a heterotopia, and plays with the theme of reflections.** Further exploring George Berkley’s idea of “To be is to be perceived.”, Rather than see the meta-self-perception and meta-self-reflection as a validation of his existence, R takes Cioran’s pessimistic approach, believing that, at best, it is self-serving and self-aggrandizing. Foucault’s idea of a heterotopia was that the reflective structures were just as important as the people, arguing that the reflection and its inherent function was a vital aspect of society.
> 
>  **Morty Town and The Heights in the Starry AU:** In the Starry AU, following the arrival of Mortys, the Heights and Morty Town were separated into the two current existing neighborhoods. Because of this, they are fairly integrated, whereas, in other parts of the Citadel, there exists a more obvious segmentation. The setting for this fic takes place on the outer ring/lower class of the Citadel, and while social mobility is a strong motivator for Ricks and Mortys, it is generally a pipe dream, or very rare, that a Rick or Morty breaks into the inner circles through honest means. 
> 
> **Mortys Coming to the Citadel, Treatment as Second-Class Citizens:** Similar to the Galactic Confederation Controlled Earth in Rickshank Redemption, where Morty’s age jumps to 35 in the new Earth society, Mortys on the Citadel enjoy the full legal status of an adult citizen. While Ricks interact with Mortys as if they are adults, they are still, nonetheless, treated as second-class citizens in many instances.
> 
>  **Citadel Laws and Societal Structures:** R observes how Rick’s most toxic character traits of narcissism and self-hatred are reflected within the societal structure of the Citadel of Ricks, believing that these toxic traits are such a fundamental aspect of his collective self that they inevitably are woven into the everyday fabric of Citadel society. His perspective would be that Ricks enjoy exploiting their interdimensional counterparts to climb the social ladder as an expression of deeply internalized and fetishized self-hatred. 
> 
> **Come and Get Your Love (1973):** A hit single by the Native American rock band Redbone. The word "redbone" is a Cajun term for a mixed-race person, which the band adopted to signify their own mixed blood ancestry. Patrick and Lolly Vasquez-Vegas were a mixture of Yaqui, Shoshone, and Mexican heritage. According to Pat Vegas, it was Jimi Hendrix, himself part Cherokee, who inspired the musicians to form an all-Native American rock group.
> 
>  **Green is the Color (1969):** Many psychedelic songs reference colors and associated meanings. Green was often correlated with life, eternity, and envy. 
> 
> **Changes (1971):** This is a reflective song about defying your critics and stepping out on your own. It also touches on Bowie's penchant for artistic reinvention. Released before Ziggy Stardust, but after Space Oddity, Bowie is speaking of himself and possibly the Vietnam War. It was originally released a day before his birthday. 
> 
> **Imagine (1971):** Probably one of the most idealistic songs in contemporary culture, it encourages us to imagine a place where things that divide people (religion, possessions, etc.) did not exist. It was heavily inspired by Yoko Ono’s book, Grapefruit, which contains instructions like, "Imagine the sky crying..." or "Imagine you're a cloud."
> 
>  **Cyclical violence and abuse towards oneself and others is a big theme in this fic.** John Lennon has a unique history with domestic violence. His attitude towards hitting women isn't something he shied away from. During a 1980 interview with Playboy, while insisting his earlier violence motivated his later calls for peace and love, he is quoted saying, 
> 
> _"'I used to be cruel to my woman, I beat her and kept her apart from the things that she loved' was me. I used to be cruel to my woman, and physically - any woman. I was a hitter. I couldn't express myself and I hit. I fought men and I hit women...That is why I am always on about peace, you see. It is the most violent people who go for love and peace. Everything's the opposite. But I sincerely believe in love and peace.”_


	6. The Only Heaven I'll Be Sent To (Is When I'm Alone With You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Turn On, Tune In, and Drop Out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the songs for this fic in one spotify playlist: [ Crimson & Clover on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue/playlist/69x5YgmwyLdrcdUtgCrP6y)

_Corner store, 2 AM_  
_Got some mango Hi-Chews, a bag of chips_  
_Rollin' through the city and we hide behind the tints_  
_In the Benz-o, got the Swisher out the window, then we dip_  
  
_Posted at the corner store, posted at the corner store_  
_Posted at the corner store, posted at the corner s_ tore

 

While the Morty Mart chain of corner stores existed throughout the Citadel, they had a tendency to reflect the neighborhood they had established themselves in. The flagship location, in Morty Town, was slotted strategically in between a business for bail bonds and a payday loans, while large flashing neon signs advertised the promise of alcohol.

The short strip of businesses and other establishments ran the length of a few Citadel blocks, alongside the neighborhood’s main hyperloop entrance, and the store was only a short walk from the Morty Town apartments. Like the name suggested, it was convenient for Morty. He had been really lucky to find such a good job.

Working the graveyard shift at the Morty Mart had its own share of small adventures: the initial parade of alcoholic regulars, nightly buying small quantities of cheap hard liquor; the strung-out customers asking to use the public facilities for purposes other than their intended use; the occasional cop; and the flock of homeless who waited by the trash bins for the expired waste food. But, around 2 a.m. the Citadel fell quiet, and Morty enjoyed being able to play music in the store, and just getting to be himself, without expectation or obligations, while the rest of the Citadel slept.

“–Hey, Music Morty! That’s what you’re calling yourself now, right?!”

Rick and Silent Morty offered a passing wave as they stepped through the open doorway. The store beeped with pseudo-portal sci-fi noises as their bodies passed through the invisible security threshold. After gravitating toward the glass box of hot foods that had been preserved far too long under the heat lamps, the duo aimlessly grazed the small isles of snack food and beverages.

Rick momentarily tried to convince Silent Morty that they should get a Morty plush doll on display, but his silent partner shook his head with an almost insulted frown, and somehow silently talked him out of it. Morty chuckled behind the register as he watched Rick offer it a longing glance as they made their way to the counter.

Still a bit high from Church, Morty glanced toward the clock as R’s drug dealing squatters unloaded an armful of candy, soda, and chips onto the counter’s surface. 2 a.m. – a little over halfway through his shift, and he was already _so_ tired. Maybe this is what R had been talking about when he warned that the edible might not kick in for a while. The redhead rang up each item, careful not to drop them through a seemingly weak grip while passively wondering if the pair had cleaned out the entire mini mart.

“Munchie run?” he teased, knowing that the duo single-handedly supplied R’s recreational habit.

“Nah, Mort, I’m on the road to recovery,” Rick corrected as he began to collect the items in his arms, smart enough to not show off the technology in their JanSport backpack, but still declining Morty’s offer for a plastic bag, insisting he _had it._

Morty continued to ring up the items, wondering exactly how many drugs were inside of it, and how the contents would be organized with the additional small mountain of snack food he was ringing up.

R had once told him, with a sense of pride, that his dealers only sold _green_ from their backpack bodega– whatever that meant. Based on the current transaction, however, Morty was slightly suspicious that they were also re-selling items from the Morty Mart. He was certain that Rick and Silent Morty had come into the store before, but he’d just never paid them any attention until now. Rick interrupted his work as he slapped a large bill of paper currency on the countertop.

“Hey, listen, can we post it out front for a few hours?”

Morty didn’t see why they couldn’t. He was about to nod, but was interrupted by his manager’s disapproving interjection.

“–You two know that’s not the Morty’s call– it’s mine, and unless I’m getting some of what you’ve got that answer’s still no.”

Manager Rick looked up from behind the latest copy of _PlayRick_ to glare at the pair’s unmistakable singular voice. He deliberately arched an eyebrow toward them with a bitchy frown, before jumping down from his perch on the counter to join his co-worker. He rolled the magazine in his hand and playfully tapped Morty over the head with it.

“Look, Morty, show up with a comfortable high or whatever, but you need to figure out your limits. You’ve been nodding off and making shit decisions on-shift – We’re gonna get robbed and you’re gonna be placated with fucking dorinachos.”

“Oh shit, man, those are so fucking good.” Rick’s eyes glazed over at the reference, and Morty also thought of the popular DIY snack food. They did sound, as Rick had put it, _really fucking good_.

“R said it would wear off by now.” He defended himself to his supervisor.

R had actually told him that Church was a great time for Morty to blaze it, because he shouldn’t waste a good high at work.

It wasn’t that Morty felt “high” anymore, he just felt very relaxed. His eyes were heavy and it was taking a great amount of effort to move his muscles. He sighed, exhausted, and kept looking at the clock, hoping it was time to go home so he could sleep.

“I shouldn't even have to be here right now, Morty.” He sighed in lamentation. “Eh, I guess that’s what I get for wanting to be called a ‘manager’ – an empty status in exchange for extra work and pay that isn’t nearly worth it.”

Aside from the other Morty who worked the day shift, Manager Rick was the only other employee – a swing shift manager who set his own schedule and came in as needed. Tonight he’d decided that Morty had come into work too high, and had stuck around.

“Eh, it comes with its perks... R, huh?” His supervisor bumped into Morty, still leaning over the counter. “He give you that cute name? Like _Making Music_ with you?”  

“No!” Morty blushed and looked away. “I-I'm just trying out Music Morty. R, uh, he owns a record store in the heights.”

“Heheh, you mean Sanchez Slums?– Oh shit, you mean _that_ Rick.”

“–R’s the shit, man.”  

Morty blushed, hoping that his supervisor hadn't already slept with this Rick.

“Aw jeez. Do uh, do you know him?”

The manager helped himself to a candy bar from the register display rack and shrugged.

“Ricks all like to talk shit about ourselves when we have nothing else to do. I’ve heard _of_ him...apparently one of those Ricks that makes us all ashamed to be ourselves.”

Silent Morty slapped his hand on the counter and his partner’s mouth fell open as he juggled their purchases. “Hey! Silent Morty, you’re a rude motherfucker you know that?”

“What’d he say?” Morty asked, still unsure of how exactly the two communicated with each other.

“He said he heard that you once sucked 37 Ricks – in a row!” The dealer accused the manager, who rolled his eyes in response and took another bite of his wafer butterfinger.

“Ugh, fucking– never gonna let me live that one down.” He mumbled under his breath, “Yeah yeah, don’t break your arm jerking yourself off to it. Swallowed so much I had to get my stomach pumped that night.”

Recently, his supervisor had installed some signs in the windows out front to remind Ricks and Mortys that alcohol wasn’t the only thing the small business offered. Morty thought the collection of brightly colored neon signs with stark red lettering made the business look a bit haphazard, but his supervisor insisted that the store start pulling its weight in the neighborhood, suggesting that locals needed more than liquor to sustain them.

He glanced to the signs littering the window: Ice cream!, Bread!, Milk and eggs!, Beer and cigarettes!, and below, a hastily added handmade sign that read _Yes, We’re Always Open! THANK YOU For Servicing Us!!!_ –Manager Rick had tongue-in-cheek insisted that the capital letters and the added exclamations were absolutely necessary, and Morty had worked long enough to come across various evidences in the back of the store that suggested his supervisor was advertising more than business hours. On a few occasions, Morty was encouraged to turn the music _Waaayyy Up_ so that his supervisor could hear it while “working” in the back _._

Morty turned the volume up way more than necessary, because he didn't want to hear his manager “working” in the back either.

So long as The Morty Mart was turning a profit, the owner didn’t care to involve themselves at the ground level, allowing Manager Rick to run the business with unquestioned, although at times, questionable authority. His customer service was Rick-standard, but his spontaneous decision making and love of pet projects made the back of the store a complete mess.

“We’re all Ricks, man.” Rick negotiated beside his silent partner. “It’s just harder for R to turn off. – Oh, Mort, add a few packs of those sweet swishers for my silent partner. I almost forgot.”

Morty handed the swishers to Silent Morty, and the duo waved as they made their exit. Silent Morty followed his partner, picking up the items that were spilling from Rick’s arms as he walked, and Manager Rick challengingly called after them.

“Try not to suck off any Ricks on your way through the parking lot!”

Morty considered the statement about R that he had been left with.

“Hey Rick, why don’t Ricks ever wanna turn-on?”

“Eh, Ricks stuck on the Citadel don’t mix well with stimulants– they tend to go for the depressants. Our number one tender is Triple X ‘cause we gotta learn how to not think about it, and live in a relatively unconscious state of mind… that is, if we don't wanna airlock ourselves out of here.”

Morty lay his head in his arms on the countertop, trying not to fall asleep as he remembered their smoke session from earlier that day.

 

***

 

“Are you ready to get high?”

"Morty, I– I haven't even put on music yet.” R snickered as he dug around for his supplies. “I don’t smoke out over-eager little weed whores in Church, so stop sweatin’ like a sinner here and give me a hand with setup.”

Morty hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the way R made him feel.

The weed was always amazing, but it was more than the feeling of being high; it was the feeling of being in Church, with R. It was a specific kind of lingering emotion that would last for hours, even after he left for work. The warm glow settled in his chest and remained with him even after he finished his shift at the Morty Mart and made his way back to his apartment.

“I’m just gonna give you a heads up, kid, this sativa strain I’ve been smoking all day is pretty potent. It’s an extrasensory perception herb...uh, the pollen – it uh, turns you on.”

“Aw jeez, it– it turns me on?”

Morty looked at R with a questioning gaze. The record store owner had been really high today, and the unpredictability that had come with that had made Morty slightly more cautious than normal. He could have sworn R was going to try and kiss him after they had fallen to the floor together, but at the last minute the record store owner had changed his mind and pushed him away, and Morty wasn’t sure what he had done.

“I mean, you’re not gonna lose control of yourself or anything like that, but I wanted to give you a heads up before you… It’s really fuckin’ sweet and mellow, but things might get a little… Things might get...too bright, too loud, too _any color that you like,_ if you will.”

The redhead nodded, making his way to his beanbag chair. R interrupted him with a grin, tossing his head toward the turntable.  

“Queue up some songs on the holo-turntable. I’m gonna teach you how to pack your first bowl.”

Morty’s mouth fell open in excitement and R nodded as he dug around the room looking for something. He smiled softly, watching the older man, before blowing his hair out of his eyes with a puff of breath and crawling over to the turntable to pick a few songs. For someone who was so meticulously organized and particular in some ways, R was a complete mess in others. He was probably just high all the time and couldn’t remember where he placed his things.

“A-are you sure? You look kind of high right now.”

“Roller’s rights, baby! The person who loads the bowl gets to pick the music, and I told you already, I’m a high-functioning stoner.”

R looked over his shoulder with a satisfied grin as the sounds of _Strawberry Fields Forever_ filled the room.

 

_Let me take you down_  
_'Cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields – Nothing is real_  
_And nothing to get hung about  
Strawberry Fields forever_

 _Living is easy with eyes closed_  
_Misunderstanding all you see_  
_It's getting hard to be someone, but it all works out  
It doesn't matter much to me_

 

“Beatles, huh? … I’m feeling a bit red today, too.”

Morty’s favorite color had always been red, but he had never thought of _feeling_ a color. He couldn’t argue with R’s strange stoner logic, however.

“Red’s always been my color,” he stated matter-of-factly with a shrug, and R looked at him with a burning gaze for a few moments, before breaking into a smile and laughing generously at something. Morty wasn’t sure what, and he blushed, looking away from R as he fumbled the lighter he had collected.

“What’s so funny?”

“Red. This song. A lot of people thought they were talking about war, and red poppies – opium…happiness is a warm gun, chasing escape and all that...they were singing about an orphanage. Anyways, red’s the color of sacrificial madness...according to Syd.” R smiled absently, before closing his eyes to hum, and broke into a soft-spoken song of musical poetry. He quietly sang through his wistful high.

 

 _“I never knew the moon could be so big,_  
_and I never knew the moon could be so blue,_  
_and I’m grateful that you threw away my old shoes,  
and brought me here instead dressed in red...”_

 

Syd was the non-existent-real-person in R’s favorite album that they had listened to a few weeks back. R had promised to tell Morty more.

“Tell me more about him.”

“Mmmm, don’t wanna kill my high today, kid; go listen to [ Jugband Blues ](https://open.spotify.com/track/7L1n9EL0Sh0LMOyxDI7rxr?si=z50jHKSCQ1mC8w6nmNS0Ug), and ask me later. That was the last song he wrote in the band before he fuckin’ lost it...the level of fuckin’ self awareness – the lyrical acknowledgement of his own mental absence and growing detachment...shit – Ah, here it is!”

R changed the subject, exclaiming in accomplishment as he revealed the red glass bubbler that he had been smoking out of earlier in his shop. It had been on the floor next to his foot the entire time he had been searching for it.

“I think you keep losing them because you have so many.”

“No, those are my rabbits – I have just as many pieces as I need. And that number has always been the current number, plus one. _This one_ is a bubbler. It’s like a mini bong. I was originally saving it for a Beatles themed smoke session with you... cause I uh, originally bought this because I wanted you to have a starter bong...but then I had to test it enough to see the red and, well, I got attached – Point is, i-it’s part of my routine now, so I gotta keep using it…”

“R, I like the pipe you already gave me.”

“Good. But just so you know, that pipe's a steam roller and this one is a bubbler – and it’s _red_ , Morty – Colored glass... the heat and smoke will make the color more intense over time. Basically the more you use it, the more red it will get.”

Morty snickered at his smoke partner. For as hard as R tried to make it sound like it, there was clearly no logic behind that. At least none that he could follow.

He lifted his arms in examination, wondering if R had known what he was talking about earlier with the cookie. He didn’t feel any different.

“How do I know if the cookie, uh, you know? Worked?”

“Oh you’ll know. We’re mixing strains with those cookies, so it’ll feel a bit like the magical mystery tour we're listening to – by the way, the Walrus was Paul, and Paul is so fuckin’ dead. I-I mean look at the cover of _Sergeant Pepper’s_.”  

Morty rolled his eyes and smiled in teasing laughter as R’s conversations continually tried to jump all over the place. He _was_ really high today, trying to have three conversations with Morty simultaneously. R handed the red glass piece to him, instructing him to fill it with cold water while he scrunched the wine-colored weed down.

Morty made his way upstairs and took his best guess at filling the glass chamber with water. He cringed at the bedsheets that still needed to be changed before grabbing a couple of water glasses and returned to find R sneezing to the pollen swirling in the room around him. His eyes were red, and Morty momentarily thought R might have been having an allergic reaction.

“Yeah yeah yeah, bring that over here, and I’ll show you the most important thing you’ll ever need to know.”

While it wasn't at a workbench, R had the same look about him as the other scientists Morty had known on the Citadel as he lovingly worked. His hands moved with practiced intention, confident, as they moved through their domain. Morty smiled warmly at the simmilarity and crept closer to him, wanting to be near it.

R did a test pull of the water, quickly deciding the level was too full. He poured a swig of the liquid into his mouth to drain some of it and Morty shuddered unpleasantly at the display. He wasn’t entirely sure about that. The small red bubbler was new, according to R, but it wasn’t exactly the cleanest piece of glass in the shop either.

“First rule, always pay attention to the flame.”

R lifted the empty bubbler toward him to demonstrate with a lighter, holding the wisp of fire against the edge of the bowl as he pulled in a stream of air. Morty watched the flame’s shape arc into the glass crevice and lick against the edge, into the bowl, as it percolated.  

“You direct the flame into the bowl with air. You don't ever wanna fuckin’ hold the flame over the green and torch it. Newbs like you always fuckin’ sit there and burn through good shit like that – you wanna warm this green-eyed cat up first… give it a nice slow tease– not a wildfire.”

Morty blushed as he remembered that R had called _him_ a green-eyed cat earlier. He couldn't help but wonder if the record store owner saw Morty in the same light that he saw his weed. R pressed the bubbler and lighter into Morty’s hands and encouraged him to do a practice run with the empty glass. As Morty pulled the flame into the bowl, getting a sense of the right amount of air to pull through the glass, R nodded in approval.

“If it's just you, and it’s your weed – light it up any fuckin’ way you like, but if you're sharing, or if someone is smoking you out, common courtesy is that you light a corner and share the greens  – don't fuckin’ be that Morty.”

Morty passed the bubbler back to R, who refused it, gesturing to the weed on the table that he’d broken up. Morty cautiously glanced at him, nervous anticipation washing over him.

“Y-you want me to?”

“Yep. I’m not packin’ our Church bowls forever.”

Morty nervously reached for the pile of weed, unsure of exactly what he should do. Usually, at this point, R would sniff a pair of fingers, lavishing the scent as if the smell was some sort of marijuana memento, but R had a strange relationship with bud.

“Do you want me to...smell it?”

“Make love to it.”

R smiled at him through red eyes, and Morty blushed at the phrase that R had repeated often since they had started smoking together.

“No kinkshaming, but I don’t know how to have sex with weed, R.”

“I’m not talking about sex.”  

R leaned back in his beanbag chair and tossed his hands behind his head in relaxation. He closed his eyes and continued to speak to Morty. His foot tapped on the carpet beneath him in thought.

“For myself, I see it as a kind of an addiction. An obsessive ritual – hard to explain, but the point is that I know what it means for me. I can’t tell you what it should mean for you.”

“Are you telling me to figure it out for myself?”

“Yep. But if you know how to listen to psychedelic music, then you know how to make love…so much musical foreplay in that genre. Band members take care of each other in the moment – total improvisational orgy.”

R’s thoughts were all over the place again, and Morty groaned, far too sober himself to not care about the laterally moving abstract lines of conversation.

“Okay, that doesn’t help. Also, you uh, said love doesn’t exist. Remember? Yesterday, in the shop when we were talking about the greatest love songs _of all time_. You said–”

“–It doesn’t. It’s basically just oxytocin, cortisol and serotonin – But that’s just like saying weed is just tetrahydrocannabinol.”

“So you’re saying making love is like using a psychedelic drug?”

Slowly, R shook his head, with eyes still closed he hummed out an answer. “Mmm… it's more of a subjective experience, but yeah.” He closed his eyes, relaxing in thought for a moment before opening them and glancing back toward Morty.

“You ever heard of the drug effect?”

“...No. But I don’t think th–”

“–It’s this hippie phrase from the 60’s. No mind altering drug has a uniformly consistent effect on people, kid. Alcohol, LSD, mary jane – the drug itself doesn't make people more loving, or friendly, or aggressive, or antisocial – the drug interacts with the personality of the user and the social setting or whatever other context the drugs are used. The combination of all of the above is called the drug effect.”

“R. That doesn’t help me pack a bowl–”

“–Hold on for a second and just– just listen to where this goes. Depending on the already existing attitudes or values of the person taking the drugs – _love_ included in that list – any drug could have a number of effects, but eventually you either use mind-altering substances to either ‘turn on’ or ‘turn off’… weed elevates whatever mood you’re in, and however you experience the high is a kind of testament to who you are and why you’re using. Actually, I think now you kids call it the placebo effect...but it’s a totally different idea.”

“But what does that mean for ‘making love’ to weed?”

“As far as I’ve figured it out, it’s all about experiencing the moment of ecstasy as it unfolds. Love is a kind of addiction – a continuous action...an expression of familiarity over time that your brain develops a chemical reliance on.”

“So you're telling me to become addicted to weed?” Morty frowned at R, questioning the advice he was being given. He’d never met a Rick who had suggested Morty become addicted to any kind of substance. R lazily waved his hand through the air as if he were trying to keep himself on track.  

“You’re oversimplifying what I’m– We all live addictive lifestyles kid. All we are on the Citadel is the things that we do – whether for your ass that is love, hate, sex, porn, hard drugs, or some old-fashioned wholesome shit – none of that matters. Here in the fish bowl, the action and the conscious choice to act is the only thing we have. Call it whatever you want: Addiction...worship… making love...that continuous choice becomes the very affirmation of your reason to get up in the morning.”

Sometimes R made leaps in thought that Morty couldn’t follow. He’d get high and ramble on with a tone of deep importance, but Morty couldn’t follow the larger jumps. This was one of those moments where R was either too high to make sense, or the edible was starting to kick in and he couldn't keep up.

“I’m...not sure I get it.”

“Heheh, yeah, it’s pretty much a paradox. I love my weed by making love to it.”  

“Jeez...” Morty blushed at the level of deep (although very high) intentional thought R had put into such a simple action. Morty had only seen weed as a way to spend time with R in Church. But, he supposed _that_ meaning was no better or worse, by R’s own admission.

Morty wanted to continue to be in Church, with R, every day, and for a brief moment, froze in nervousness as he considered if that would also be how the stoner might make love to him. He flushed a deep red at the thought of R doing something like that, daily.

“So all you need is love?” Morty referenced a song from the album that was currently playing in the room. R chuckled with a hint of jadedness.

“It’s a nice ideal, and there’s a reason people love the Beatles... they’re one of those bands you have to continually rediscover through life, but they had the right idea...all you need is love, all you want is sex, and all you have is porn…”  

Morty’s eyes squinted in suspicion. Rediscovering something you loved sounded like the same idea of continuous action that R had just been talking about, but the stoner had dismissed it, but maybe Morty hadn't fully grasped what R was trying to say.

Although R was stoned off his ass, conversations with him were still pretty enjoyable, even when the redhead couldn’t follow most of them. His expression fell as he remembered conversations after he had been allowed to drink with his grandfather.

“I still don’t think I get it. But I think you use drugs differently than most Ricks, R.”

He shrugged with minimal effort. “Eh, we all have our own ways to make love in worship to our own addictive rituals – I may be using a different drug, but I’m still keeping up with the collective level of substance abuse.”  

Morty snorted at R before reaching out to load the weed into the glass chamber. Unlike the bong that he had smoked out of, which had a removable stem, the bubbler was closer to the pipe that had been in R’s wooden box. Morty softly smiled to himself thinking of the meaningful item that R had given him. He carried it in his messenger bag to ensure its safekeeping, afraid to leave it unattended because it was so important to R.

“Okay, first rule, only pack as much as you're gonna smoke, and make sure the filter is even.”

“You mean second rule?”

“Shit, yeah, second rule, I’m really fuckin’ stoned right now...Once you start burning it's no good to leave a half finished bowl, and with these pieces you need a filter. Glass ones are best, cause while you won’t suck in ash, you don’t wanna pull your bud into the water.”

R handed him a lighter, instructing him to gently press the tip of his thumb into the lush green crevice.  

“Once it’s burning you wanna use the corner of your lighter to keep packing it as you smoke, but I always start with my thumb. You don't need to ‘pack’ it – it’s more of a gentle press. Like with the joint, air’s gotta move through it… Your lungs can only absorb so much THC in the smoke, so if you fucking overpack the bud to burn ratio, your over-eager little ass is just burning through your shit faster and you’re only gonna waste my good bud.”

R fell silent as he studied Morty working, He had leaned forward in his bean bag, resting his chin in his palm with a soft smile. Even knowing that R was high, and probably not even _watching him_ per-se, the added attention today had made Morty uncomfortably nervous. R broke the silence with a question from his clouded thoughts.  

“You been practicing?”

“W-What?”

“With the weed I gave you?”

“Oh, I uh… Yeah. Actually, it’s all gone,” he lied. It was easier than trying to explain what had actually happened.

“There’s no way you smoked through that entire ounce.”

R teased him, and Morty sighed, before deciding to be honest about it. He hadn’t been planning to tell R, because R wouldn’t have understood, but he was really high today, so he might. His movements stilled as he apologized for lying.

“Yeah, you’re right. I-I’m sorry.” Morty scrubbed his hand across the back of this neck and avoided R’s curious stare. When he said nothing, the redhead continued. “I-I’ve uh – I’ve been staying with a Rick in my apartment, and I shared it with him, but I smoked a lot too and–”

“–A Rick? You live in those apartments in Morty Town, right?” R cut him off with a suspicious look. Morty chewed his lip and quickly nodded, upset at himself for letting the information slip. Ricks were not allowed to live in the Morty Town apartments. R had probably asked for clarification because he lived close enough to Morty Town to know that.

“Y-Yeah. He just goes by Labcoat Rick. I guess I’m – we’re kind of a thing...”

“Oh...”

Morty watched the expression on R’s face fall. He was silent for a moment with a deadpan gaze before he reached out to ruffle Morty’s hair, causing the boy’s heart to stop in his chest at the gesture. He froze in caution, not knowing how R was going to react to the information that Morty was with another Rick, but the older man sighed in a way that almost felt relieved.

“Pssh, what a waste of weed – It’s my fault if anything. I would never have sent you back with all that weed if I knew your Rick was there to snake your score.”

“He’s not – He’s not my Rick.” Morty defensively interjected into the conversation.

“Okay.” R, despite being high, calculatingly looked at Morty before echoing the teen’s assertion. “He’s not your Rick.”

The tension in R’s voice was palpable, and Morty tried to change the subject. He didn’t want to think about Labcoat Rick while he was in church with R.

“L-let’s just get high.”

R’s indifferent expression turned into a frown before he spoke with an unmistakable hint of jealousy in his voice, despite seeming relieved on hearing the news.

“Why do you wanna smoke, kid?”

Morty anxiously played with the lighter in his hand, avoiding the seemingly loaded question. He looked away, staring at the green bowl in his other hand.

“I dunno, R, it makes me feel good...and I don’t have to think about things for a bit.”

“If escape is your only reason, then you’re gonna get addicted fast. You’re gonna end up smoking through your stash chasing the feeling of ecstacy…”

Morty blushed as he looked away from R.

“Yeah, I think I understand that–  at least... at first, I came here to kinda get away from things y’know, but now, I just like being here, with you.”

R froze, and offered a tender smile at Morty's admissive flirtation, and the redhead felt guilt coil tightly in the pit of his stomach at his words. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t let himself flirt with R. Not when whatever he had with Labcoat Rick was... R responded to Morty’s body language and nudged him in the arm.

“Good. Cause Church is special for me too, kid. I’m sure you’ve already figured out that I don’t invite just anyone back here, and if I’m gonna teach you how to smoke, I wanna give you the best experience you've ever had.”

For the record store owner, sharing drugs in the space of Church, it seemed, carried the same significance as a sexual or spiritual experience. Coming to Church, and getting high with R, was an intimate gesture for the record store owner. He even went so far as to call it “Making Love”, and the teen didn’t know what to think of the phrasing.

Guilt continued to burn in Morty’s chest as he considered how much closer they had grown to each other over the past few weeks. He desperately wanted to see R more than the few hours surrounding Church each day, and found himself often thinking of the stoner outside of them.

For a moment, shame burned fiercely over the redhead as he remembered the previous night in his apartment. He had imagined a different Rick holding his body and moving inside of him, the stoner’s calloused fingertips brushing lines of fire against his skin, unable to resist his desire for the redhead. The Rick who had actually been with Morty, however, rarely kissed him, and even more rarely turned Morty to face him. Although that made it easy for Morty to imagine that he was a different Rick, his fantasy had been left lacking, because in his imaginations R had passionately kissed him, and Morty had kissed him back.  
  
Morty chewed his dry lips and stole a quick glance toward the Rick of his wildest dreams. Imagining R within the privacy of his thoughts, however, was much safer than what he was currently doing, now. Morty didn’t want to make a mistake.

He stared blankly at his hands, clenching the glass piece while lost in thought as he continued to tell himself that he _really_ shouldn't continue to be here, but he’d already promised R that he'd come back, daily, and although it terrified him, and made him anxious to even consider his honest emotions, he _wanted_ to be here.

R crawled out of the beanbag and into Morty’s space, circling around him on the carpet, and caught the teen’s gaze before moving to sit behind the boy in a straddle. He guided his arms around Morty’s in a gentle hug and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, while weaving long spidery legs around his kneeling form. He guided Morty’s hands to hold the bubbler and the lighter in a shaky grip before pressing closer into his back.

“You want me to show you how I make love?”

Morty nearly dropped the glass, his heart racing. The older man’s breath traveled along the back of his neck, and his nose smoothed itself across the tuft of soft crimson hair. R inhaled his scent before contentedly letting out a sigh, humming satisfaction into Morty’s eardrum, and at the contact, Morty felt the base of his budding erection warm as it sparked to life in response with arousal. The dull ache yearned for more as he began to swell.    

“Mmmm, it’s the difference between wanting to get off and wanting to get high, kid.”  

Still holding Morty’s hand, R instructed the redhead to flick the lighter to life, guiding it to tilt against the bowl’s entrance. Morty felt his body press back against R’s chest as he inhaled to take a hit, pulling the flame into the green bud as the water bubbled in excitement.

He pulled a stream of gray smoke through, then immediately coughed it out. R cradled Morty as his body shook against him. Then, with a heady sigh, he pressed his voice into the teen, filling his mind with a dreamy chuckle. Morty gave a slight sigh at the friction of his jeans as his erection continued to harden, feeling as if the redirection of his blood had left him light-headed and high.

“Mmm, good try, kid. Next time, take it slow, let the smoke build for a nice. Milky. Hit.”  

R articulated each word with burning suggestive emphasis, and Morty fought against the growing need to adjust himself before he came in his pants at the intensely pleasurable amounts of friction he was suddenly experiencing.

He took a deep breath through his nose and felt his airways burn and the corner’s of his eyes water in pain. He had been so determined to keep himself from coughing out the smoke through his mouth that he'd sealed his lips, which had only resulted in the teen coughing streams of searing smoke through his nose, irritating his sinuses. R plucked the bubbler from Morty’s hands with a smirk.

“Gonna be a total fucking hypocrite for today, because all I do anymore is smoke to turn off. I-I’m not even sure if an addict can even use recreationally, but...”

R trailed off for a pause and Morty considered R’s earlier explanation of addiction. The record store owner smoked weed in the same way that most Ricks drank. Even though the substances were different, Morty understood all too well his unwavering psychological reliance on the drug they were now sharing. He couldn't help but wonder if R’s stoned flirtations were any different than those of an inebriated Rick’s. R continued to share his honest thoughts, and Morty hesitated to hear them.

“But today...I wanted to, uh, indulge in some recreational escapism. Turn on. I wanted to try getting high with you.”  

Morty fiercely blushed at R’s stoned admission, thankful he had not been sharing eye contact with the older man. A phrase like that shouldn’t carry such an intimate, emotional and possibly sexual weight to it.

“What do you mean...when you say _turn on?”_

When Morty had heard the word before he always thought it meant that the person was horny. But that definition didn’t quite fit with how R had been using it.

“ _Turn on, tune in, and drop out_ – It’s a thing we all started during the Summer of Love – had nothing to do with drugs, and everything to do with reaching a certain state of mind... It described being in a sort of ecstasy.”

Morty was trying to process the large chunk of information R had just given him, hoping that R wasn’t going to expect him to remember all of it. He tongued the strawberry oils coating the roof of his mouth as his mind recalled numerous ideas ecstasy.

“Is ecstasy like some kind of orgasm for you?” Morty blurted out the words, unfiltered, before deeply blushing as he understood what he had just asked the record store owner with such straightforwardness.

“Ecstasy is a kind of...that moment when you free your mind enough to experience some kind of revelating truth in its entirety, temporary and fleeting because you can only ever fully grasp it for a single moment, but in that moment it is an absolute– nothing else matters. It’s why you have to continually re-discover it.”

He felt R’s chest jerk in a slight chuckle before the man lightly placed a hand over the teens eyes, and Morty stared into the void of darkness as R’s voice found him.

 

_“If the doors of perception were cleansed, every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.”_

 

R laughed once more, pulling his hand away from Morty’s eyes.  

“Sounds pretty fuckin’ biblical right? That dystopian author, Huxley, the guy who wrote _Brave New World? –_ You know, that story where the main character hangs himself in the end cause he can’t stand perfect society – he wrote _The Doors of Perception_ , the pioneering work of the psychedelic movement, and borrowed the name from that line of romantic era bullshit. Then, Morrison’s band, they got their name from _him.”_

Beginning to ignore R’s conversation, Morty glanced toward the table and his glass of water, focusing intently on it. His sensations blended a bit and Morty palmed his erection before crawling away from R to get some water because he was Thirsty Morty or something and water looked _so good_ – _Was he high?_

“Huxley called acid a ‘toxic shortcut to self-transcendence’ at one point. Most of his dystopian societies insidiously involved the masses being controlled by the things we love and worship...Anyways, mind altering substances _helped_ you turn on, but they were never necessary.”

As Morty listened to R, savoring the cool feeling washing down his throat and into his stomach, his mind suddenly caught up with the conversation, and he stared at the man, and wondered if R ever used drugs like acid. The record store owner talked about living in the 60’s as if he had. R seemingly caught the question in Morty’s eyes.

“Wondering if I ever dropped acid, kid?”

Morty chuckled at himself, remembering that he had, in fact, just wondered aloud something about acid to R moments before.

“Used to grow my own, but going back to that idea of the drug effect, mescaline and I haven’t mixed well as of late. I tend to get lost in my own head chasing rabbits and find myself trapped on some bad trips… but Earth-strains like Panama-Red are mild psychedelics, and Rojo Rickbone is a strain derived from it. It's made to turn you on in a similar, but more mellow way.”

That must have been what R was talking about earlier when he cautioned that the strain might get ‘too loud’ for Morty. The teen looked around Church, noting that the colors on the walls were vibrating. It reminded him of waking up on a summer morning and opening his eyes, when everything was too bright for a few brief moments. Unlike that experience, however, the brightness wasn’t overwhelming and he didn’t need to squint his eyes to a close.

He reached a hand out, informing his smoke partner that he could _see color_ , drawing out an endearing laugh from the older man. He sloppily attempted to tilt his head toward R, and stared at him for a silent moment with his mouth agape. It looked like there were heat waves emanating from the man’s shoulders and head, and suddenly, all of the psychedelic art he’d ever seen made total sense. R continued to laugh, watching his journey of realization unfold.

“If you wanna make love to the high, you gotta be [ bold as love ](https://open.spotify.com/track/0uco0wQkB909zpPlHvu5Cc?si=IuG82tctStub7mndjArs2w) and worship it as if you have nothing and everything to lose. Gotta let it help you turn on, tune in, and drop out…and whether you experience heaven or hell, the light of the sun or the darkness of the moon, gotta remember that it’s your own mind that creates ‘em. That’s how you find ecstasy chasing rabbits, kid.”

Morty pursed his lips in a frustrated high, unable to articulate what he had been considering while R had been talking. He felt like he had _already_ done all those things with R – on the first day he got high with him, and every day since. Just as the teen was about to respond, the song changed, and R’s face lit up in approval. He raised the bubbler to his mouth to take his first hit.

“As far as getting high with _you_ is concerned...you’ve been a pretty intense mind-altering substance for me, kid. So let _me_ blow _your_ mind for a change.”

 

_I'd like to be under the sea  
_ _In an octopus' garden in the shade_

 

R took a practiced hit from the pipe, pulling a stream of gray smoke into his lungs. He held it for a long pause before he made a fish face and slowly pushed out a jellyfish tendriled cloud of red smoke. He raised a hand to its wall, stabilizing it into a donut shape, before blowing another steady tendril of green smoke into the center of it.

The second color was pulled into the turbulence of the first and wrapped around the ring in a swirling dance, coating it with a second layer of semi-transparent colored smoke that slowly melted around it. R lifted his hand to caress the ring, and the colors danced together as the shape pressed forward into the space of Church, slowing and fading into nothing.  

Morty watched the changing colors of the smoke ring fill the room with his mouth agape, in awe at the presentation, and he wondered aloud about the strain.  

“Where do Rick and Silent Morty get their weed from?”

“Don't ask that kind of shit, kid, it makes you look sketchy as fuck.” R hesitated for a moment before continuing. “...but Rico's their source, and his shit’s always better than the Cartel… cause he cares about the drugs the Mafia pushes, not just the money.”

Morty nodded, wondering why his smoke had been a colorless gray. Maybe he hadn’t done it right.

“Can you teach me how to do that?”

“You could probably learn to ghost today, but smoke rings take some practice.”

“No, I mean – how do you change the colors?”

“Eh, something to do with the oxygen level of the smoke. The longer you hold your breath the hotter the color changes or something. Red is the last one, hence the name.”

R lifted the bubbler once more, shifting the glass in his hands as he thought of the best way to explain.

“And to do a smoke ring, it’s a mouth hit, not a lung hit.” He smirked at Morty with a crooked, flirtatious grin and Morty rolled his eyes preemptively. “Gotta give it your “O” face.” R snickered through his high, thinking it was much funnier than it was. “O for octopus.”

“Aw jeez R, that's not that funny.” Despite thinking as much, he couldn't help but join in the laughter at the dumb joke.

“Octopus' garden – It’s a classic kink of mine.” R continued to laugh.

“Here. You hold the smoke in your mouth, then you slowly push out an orb using your tongue, before quickly pulling it back in – inhale with your stomach so the air moving in your mouth doesn’t fuck it up.”

R demonstrated a ghost hit, taking another draw from the bubbler, before opening his mouth and slowly pulling his body backwards as a gaseous purple cloud of haze billowed from his mouth in a plump bulbous shape. He lifted his hand and seemingly coaxed the smoke back into his mouth with a gentle caress as it melted blue.

Morty stared intently at him, before feeling his head turn away as his cheeks flooded with heat. R just looked so _into the action,_ and watching him, studying him in that way, felt too intimate for a moment. He adjusted himself, obviously tucking what had become a fully hard erection under his waistband, before returning his gaze to see R lean forward, then rise back up while releasing a trail of tiny red smoke rings. As the oxygen returned to the smoke, a spectrum of colors quickly swirled through the arc of rings in an opalescent flair before R waved his hand to scatter them throughout the room, dispersing them into the chapel’s void.  

He passed the bubbler to Morty and smirked with a light cough.

“Don’t jizz your pants, kid, that last part was just me showing off.”

Morty, whose blush felt near-permanent, took the bubbler, ready to try a ghost hit. He lit the bowl and pulled the smoke into his mouth, trying to follow R's motions by releasing a melon green cloud that was fairly solid and leaning forward to suck the smoke back in as it faded to a tangerine orange, catching a good amount.

Hesitant, Morty grinned at R and began to release the smoke with the intent of making a ring, but the immediate burn of his lungs caught in his chest as the smoke left him, causing him to lean forward in a rolling cough, losing smoke everywhere as its color faded out.

“Heh, not bad for a stoner babe.” Morty was expecting the kind of response full of scathing sarcasm that he had become used to with Ricks. But R continued to encourage him.

“It's harder to blow rings with weed smoke cause you wanna cough the second you exhale. Especially when you have a fresh set of lungs on you.”

“I just wanted to make a smoke ring.”

“You'll get there. Being a good lover takes time, kid. That ten second show I just gave you came from a lifetime of practice. That’s why I said I was just showing off for someone less experienced – it's an insanely easy way to stroke my ego.”

Morty nodded, still frustrated, nonetheless, that he was unable to do something R had made look so simple. He felt like he couldn't do anything right.

“Wanna know how to do a real ghost hit?” R leaned into Morty’s personal raincloud, and whispered as if he were sharing a secret. “Hold the smoke in your lungs long enough, and you'll exhale clear air.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, give it a try.”

Morty took another small hit from the bubbler, holding it for a long pause, until R nodded to him to let it out. A milky white smoke threaded out of him, and Morty frowned, disappointment filling his lungs at the color. R, however was watching the smoke with excitement.

“It didn't work.” Morty lamented, and R grabbed Morty's shoulder and shook it.

“Aw shit, I forgot! Ghost hits with this strain are white, like a full rainbow! Fu~uck me this is good shit.” R broke into a hearty laughter, and Morty couldn't help but smile at his contagious excitement. “It's been too long since I smoked to have fun like this.”

Morty’s frown softened. He supposed if R had only been smoking to get high, he wouldn't have been playing with his weed and trying to do ghost hits like this. He agreed with R’s sentiment, remembering his own feelings about coming to Church just to be around R.

“I always have fun with you in Church, R.”

“Mmm, my ego could always use a good stroke– stoking from a fiery redhead.”

R tucked a hand behind his head and looked at Morty a bit more suggestively, and the redhead could no longer pretend that it was a figment of his high-imaginations. R was either jealous, or testing Morty, trying understand how attached he really was to the Rick he had mentioned earlier. Labcoat Rick didn’t like that Morty had been coming to Church, and this was probably why. Morty couldn’t be trusted to be around other Ricks.

 

_“I asked you not to go back to that store. Can’t you do one fucking thing right, Red-shirt?”_

 

“Hey kid, you there?”

Morty blinked through the high that had undoubtedly kicked in and he looked at R with a burning question. His eyelids were heavy, and the edges of his vision were rounding out in a mild fish-eye distortion.

“Do you ever…is it possible to mess something up every day?”

Morty felt that every day he returned to the record store he was messing things up with Labcoat Rick more and more. R lay across the carpet and just heartily laughed at the question before offering up an answer.

“I don't know if my unsympathetic answer is something you wanna hear, kid.”

Morty snatched the bubbler from R and paused to breathe before taking another hit, not wanting to think about it. He released a lopsided yellow blob that wiggled in its own instability. R nudged him, cheering him on encouragingly as it left his mouth before he quickly sat up, and his smile calmed into something deeper, more calculating. He playfully glanced at Morty before leaning into him.

“Give me some of that backwash smoke, kid.”

R caught Morty's chin with his fingertips, pulling his cheek to face him, before pressing his lips against the cloud of smoke and drawing in a large portion of it. His hand flattened against Morty’s cheek as a thumb smoothed across the surface in the gesture suggesting of a shotgun like before. The older man stared at him for a moment, before blowing a white smoke ring into Morty's face. He chuckled as Morty stared at him in silent shock.  

“Life is messy. It also takes practice... it’s only a mistake if you choose not to correct it.”  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

“How long have we been on the floor, kid?”

The two lay on the carpet, holding hands as their high fully settled in. Morty watched the patterns on the walls and ceilings continue to vibrate as if they were breathing with silent thoughts. The colors shifted as he moved his eyes in an afterimage effect. His face felt warm, and he was wrapped in the sensation of floating. He spoke over the music playing in the background.

He was certain the conversation had died long ago, before they got really high, but it suddenly felt strangely important for him to bring it up again.

“How can you _choose_ not to correct something, R?”

R took a deep breath, before expelling a long, whistling sound that mimicked a bomb falling.

“I can’t change... And that means I’m just one big mistake.”

A lot of Ricks thought like that, not just R, but it wasn’t so much that they refused to correct their mistakes, It was that most of them didn’t know how to fix them. R seemed aware of that, however, and his statement sounded closer to a warning as much as an acknowledgement.

“Hey, R?”

“Hey, kid?”

“Am I just...imagining things… with you? Sometimes...I dunno, but the way you look at me–”

R sighed and let out a curse under his breath. “–It's not in your head, Morty.”

The redhead’s heart lurched at hearing a confirmation spoken from the person he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. Despite his high, everything felt surreal at hearing the words admitted so freely, with such honesty. He propped himself on his elbow to squint toward him. R continued, however, with an equally honest, intentionally distancing answer.

“But Ricks – myself included – don't want anyone for the right reasons. I can’t change, and I'm too selfish to use love responsibly, kid. I just wanna get off on it. If I developed some co-dependent addiction – you'd become my personal substance to abuse, and that particular drug effect is why…”

R trailed off, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. “That’s why my attraction to you is gonna stay in my head where it belongs.”

“What about what I want?”

Morty was irritated that R had decided all of that for the both of them, without considering his perspective. R sat up and looked at the redhead with a serious gaze. He narrowed his eyes in a challenge to Morty, who had known that look from all Ricks as a stern warning to not waste his time.

“And what do you want, Morty?”

The teen’s mind went blank as R’s gaze caught his undivided attention like a flash of lightning, and again his heart stopped, burned by their cautionary intensity. Never before had he been given the chance to share his desires, to make a choice when it came to what he wanted between himself and a Rick. He nervously ran his fingers through the tresses of his hair and looked away from the record store owner.

He hadn't really considered it past the desire of simply _feeling wanted_ by R. There was something indescribable about that thought, and he was hoping that once he found out if it was real or not, _then_ Morty could decide _what_ he wanted. R had just given him a contradiction, admitting that while the older man absolutely thought of Morty in that way, he had no plans to ever act on those thoughts... but he already had, multiple times today.  

How was Morty supposed to make a decision about what he wanted with _that_?

“I want…I... don't know...yet.”

“You wanna get off with me, Morty?”

Morty's heart thrummed in alarm at the change in tone as R crawled over to him. He wrapped fingers around Morty’s knees and parted his legs.

“Cause I can help you lose the rose-tinted glasses if you just wanna turn off. If you just want me to make you feel good and not have to think about it.”

He pressed a hand against Morty's chest and gently pushed him onto his back, crawling onto him, and caging him between hands resting on the carpet fringes. Morty felt his breathing shallow, as the smoke moving around them in the room grew heavy.

R steadily reached out a thumb and slowly dragged it alongside the hard ridge of Morty's collarbone, teasing the hem of the red shirt aside, before carefully returning his hand to the carpet, and lowering himself onto Morty, speaking firmly into his ear.

“You can’t know what you want because you have no _fucking_ idea what you're asking for.”

Once again, his heart fell still, before racing itself back to life. He continued to stare up at R, determined. He placed a hand on the man’s chest, pushing his body far enough away that they could share eye contact, and the redhead stared into the obscuring haze of R’s eyes and felt the man’s heart, beating equally rapidly against the press of his hand.

“I _don't_ know what I’m asking for, because you're not like the other Ricks, R.”

R held his gaze against Morty’s for a suffocating moment, staring at him with intense eyes that flared unmistakably with a glint of possessiveness at the mention of another Rick. Guilt returned to Morty as he realized that when R asked the teen what he wanted, Labcoat Rick hadn’t even been considered. As if he were reading Morty’s secret thoughts, R gave voice to them.

“That other Rick back at your apartment, freeloading off of– using you for a quick fix?”

Morty turned his head away in shame. He didn't want to see it that way, It was more complicated than that. He gently nodded and R’s gaze continued to burn a hole into his chest.  

“I'm _everything_ like him.”

Facing Morty, R lowered himself fully onto him, pressing a pair of lips against his cheek in a tender, lingering kiss, before grazing his lips across skin to whisper in the redhead's ear.

“Para que te acuerdes si no estás conmigo, Morty.”  
_(for you to remember when you’re not with me, Morty)_

His nose dragged against Morty's neck trailing behind his ear while his eyes fluttered closed. The redhead felt R’s weight press into him, and with a gentle inhale, R drank in the lush, bold, sweet scent of ripe summer strawberries in the parted red strands of hair. His breath hitched with a soft groan and he licked his lips before tensing up, then slowly pulled away with an audible curse.

“I'm too high to call myself responsible around you, Morty. I don’t want – It’s been an hour. We should call it today.”

Suddenly quiet, and visibly shaken, he turned away from Morty, picking up the bubbler with unstable breaths, and began to load another bowl. The lighter rattled against the glass piece, and he turned his entire body to face away from Morty, who had been left wholly confused by the sudden change in atmosphere.

“Did I...do something?”

Morty, still in shock following the moment of closeness between them, sat up and continued to stare at R with a questioning gaze. The older man glanced over his shoulder, and nervously caught his eyes before abruptly looking away from him.

“I’m too high right now, and it’s fucking with my ability to use my head around you.”

If R didn’t want to let himself be attracted to Morty, he was doing a shit job at stopping himself from coming onto him. Morty rose from the carpet with an angry huff and an unwanted boner, not knowing what to say, but his glare softened into something more complex as he watched the man light his bowl, then cough out clouds of colorless smoke while clutching the glass piece tightly into his chest, eyes clenched shut.

In silence, Morty gathered his things, and walked to the beaded curtain before pausing again. He couldn’t look at R while he spoke his own honest admission.

“It's not fair, R – your question. Because you don't know what you want either.”

Morty felt time stop as he grabbed for his shoes and ran away to the pulse of his racing heart without looking back. R held his breath until the sound of the storefront bell rang in confirmation of the boy’s absence and immediately following, the sacred space of Church surrounding him grew cold.

“I know what I want.”

Quietly, R admitted it in confession to himself. He had known since he woke this morning, and allowed himself to make love to Morty in the funeral pyre of his mind. As he remembered the hypnagogic vision of his most vivid imagination burning everything to ashes, R felt his chest flutter in a palpitating panic. He gasped a shallow breath, grabbing at his heart with a clenched fist as he felt himself begin to come down from his high, and finally, he began panicking as much as he thought he should be panicking by now.

 

_I want love._

“Don’t think about it.”

 

_Manic depression is touching my soul_  
_I know what I want but I just don't know_  
_How to, go about getting it_  
_Feeling, sweet feeling_  
_Drops from my fingers, fingers_

 _Well, I think I'll go turn myself off_  
_And go on down_  
_All the way down_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **37 Dicks in a row:** Nod to popular quote from Clerks. This movie, written by Kevin Smith (Silent Bob), was the cult classic that introduced the characters Jay and Silent Bob. In our fic, Rick tells Music Morty that he is on the “road to recovery” this is a nod to Jay and Silent Bob’s actors, Kevin and Jayson. Jayson struggled with a lifetime heroin addiction, and Kevin remained his friend and support system through all of it.
> 
>  **[ History of Corner Stores and Bodegas: ](https://centropr.hunter.cuny.edu/centrovoices/barrios/legacy-puerto-rican-bodega)** In Central and South America, and the Caribbean, they have bodegas on every corner to serve the poor, but are iconic for becoming centers of their communities. It’s unique that supermarkets have not been able to put the bodega owner out of business. “Bodega” is also used as a colloquialism for a crime scene (R often refers to Rick and Silent Morty’s backpack bodega) “
> 
>  **The Psychedelic Experience** is an instruction manual intended for use during sessions involving psychedelic drugs. A contemporary version of _The Tibetan Book of the Dead,_ authored by Timothy Leary (Turn on tune in, drop out guy), Ralph Metzner and Richard Alpert – all of whom took part in experiments investigating the therapeutic and religious possibilities of drugs such as mescaline, psilocybin and LSD – the book is dedicated to Aldous Huxley and includes a short introduction citation from Huxley's book _The Doors of Perception._ Part of this text was used by the Beatles in the song _Tomorrow Never Knows._
> 
>  **The Doors of Perception:** Ideas of perception, perspective, and the subjective experience of reality are big themes in this fic. See Ch 1 endnotes for Huxley, The Doors, and William Blake’s Poem.
> 
>  **R Equates Getting High to Turning On and Mindless Sex to Turning Off:** This reflects the ideas behind the original phrase, "Turn on, tune in, drop out" popularized by Timothy Leary in 1966.
> 
>  **The Drug Effect: R Equates ecstacy to Truth:** R believes that mind-altering substances allow one to more easily grasp the essence or truth of something, and defines the resulting experienced moment of awareness and understanding as reaching a state of ecstacy or nirvana. For him, ecstasy is a state of mind, rather than a sexual feeling. He goes on to talk about the drug effect, implying that one can use drugs to turn on or turn off, depending on their drug effect factors.
> 
>  **Discovering Truth:** This idea is very much in line with psychedelic ideas of spiritualism, but it can also be a loose interpretation of Plato's theory of forms: the idea of truth as a distilled essence or the “soul” of something. We can understand and recognize a “Rick” even if he is a Pickle Rick, because he has an inherent Rick-ness essence; a bit more complicated, we can recognize “Love” because it has an inherent essence that is irreplaceable.
> 
>  **Paul is Dead:** A popular conspiracy theory surrounding the Beatles that suggests Paul was killed during a car accident during _Rubber Soul,_ and was replaced with a look alike. _Sergeant Pepper’s_ cover showcases a number of “clues”. The Beatles later wrote Glass Onion to make fun of this group of fans. Take the time and go down this rabbit hole.
> 
>  **Jugband Blues (1967):** This is Syd Barrett's last contribution to Pink Floyd, and the only song on the album that he wrote and sang on. Shortly before it was released, he was kicked out of the band. The song itself is Barrett's self-diagnosis of mental illness, explained by the lines "I'm most obliged to you for making it clear that I'm not here" and "I wonder who could be writing this song?"
> 
>  **Octopus’ Garden (1968):** This was one of two songs Ringo Starr wrote for the Beatles. It came about when Ringo left The _White Album_ sessions in 1968 and went on a boating trip with his family. The boat's captain told him everything he knew about octopuses, and how they travel along the seabed looking for shiny objects and stones with which to build gardens. Ringo thought about how tranquil it would be to live down there amongst your friends in the calm waters – the opposite of the chaos and internecine conflict he was going through with the Beatles. With this idea, he wrote the song about living in the octopus’ garden. In our fic, it’s a fun escape for our main characters, because Ringo is too pure for this world.
> 
>  **Manic Depression (1967):** Manic Depression was the original term for Bipolar Disorder. Although there is no record that Jimi was ever diagnosed with the disorder, his eccentric manor and emotional swings caused his manager, Chas Chandler (formerly of the Animals (House of the Rising Sun)), to call him manic depressive, which inspired the song.


	7. We Were Born Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don't think about it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** The gears are gonna start shifting into angst for the next big chunk of chapters. This chapter is a deep dive into thoughts of depression and suicide. Please take a look at the chapter-specific TW list, or read the spoiler summary if you are sensitive to these themes.
> 
>  **General TW's for this chapter:** Mental Distress, Depression, Suicide Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Abandonment, Child Abuse, Internalized Abuse  
>   
>  Spoiler Summary Feature is Disabled. Click "Show Creator's Style" at the top of this page to activate. (Mobile Friendly)
> 
> All the songs for this fic in one spotify playlist: [ Crimson & Clover on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue/playlist/69x5YgmwyLdrcdUtgCrP6y)

 

 _It feels like I only go backwards baby,_  
_Every part of me says go ahead,_  
_I've got my hopes up again, oh no, not again._  
_It feels like we only go backwards, darlin'_

 

Ricks had a tendency to intellectualize their own behavior. Rather than exposing themselves to vulnerability by expressing emotions – instead of confronting such emotional insecurities, understanding that behaviors could come from an emotional desire or an emotional fear that was, in fact, irrational in nature – Ricks used their intellect as a defense mechanism, and the walls built within their minds created a nearly impenetrable barrier.

“What the fuck do you want, R?”

He repeated the question Morty had left him with as he found himself doing exactly that. He lay, sober, in bed, resting his head on his pillow, experiencing a dreamlike catatonic depression while despondently staring at the ceiling.

The record store owner listened to the rhythmic beating of his heart and tried to will the seconds of his existence to pass, feeling as if the artificial sky of the Citadel were falling on him. His pulse marched on, and the moving quiet of its inertia crept through the undercurrent of his life.

The colors were all wrong; time was fucked, and indifferent to the understanding that he was only falling further behind in his non-existent schedule. R hadn’t even bothered to rise from his bed, make breakfast, nor unlock the front door.

Like a skipping record, he stared at the grooves in his ceiling, anticipating the small changes in his day, feeling like he wouldn't be able to work past them.

The thing about leading a life of self-aware choice was that it required a tremendous amount of conscious effort. The effort of waking up. The effort of moving through a routine… the unceasing, tedious effort of even giving a shit.

Today, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything, because, he reminded himself, effort itself was a stupid goal that would always end in disappointment, and to try was to have already failed. The resulting feeling was overwhelming at best. At worst, it was yet another conscious choice that had turned his existence – his life – into a tedious, insurmountable obstacle of his own design.

R's unending stream of consciousness, which, like most Ricks, had always been more-or-less effortless, continued to swirl around him, and with each breath that he was forced to endure, he re-considered placing a bit of effort into stopping their motions entirely.

“You’re a fucking piece of worthless shit.”

There was no music spilling out of the speakers today, and the harrowing silence immersed the record store owner into the disquieting apathy of the surrounding Citadel, where his thoughts, distraction free, consumed him.

The only music playing was in his head.

 

***

 

  
R would have long ago welcomed the chaos of his own madness if he were not afraid of the flickering lights of lucidity within it. He chased the rabbits in his head, knowing that he would inevitably find himself falling over the edge after them regardless.

He had been anticipating the unpleasant comedown, and had woken with a sick sense of satisfaction in predicting that his life was an inevitable looping crash; even in the midst of experiencing it, R couldn't help but to consciously consider the current mental breakdown unfolding in slow motion before him – his mind at the breaking point of distress, desperately attempting to force an emotional growth that he had long refused to undertake.  

R could not change, because he believed that he was, fundamentally, incapable of making anything more than a series of inconsequential choices, and the continuous ambiguity embedded within a single, pointed, question of potential consequence needled him into a groove of immovable, muted anguish.

Ricks always had too much idle time to think on the Citadel, and to slow down for even a moment in consideration of the parading glass menagerie he had caged himself within was to set into motion a counterclockwise mental tailspin that stirred to waking the vexing inner restlessness of a familiar, formless dark euphoria at the center of his being.

The more he fought to try and escape from himself, the more suffocatingly his own threads of thought spun around him.

 

_ti tuoba kniht t’noD_

 

The illusion of control the Citadel offered was so complete that he didn't have to think about anything if he didn't want to, which was why, inevitably, the self-hatred that defined him led him to the decision of _choosing_ not to think about it – a minutiae of distinction that really didn't matter, because either way, chasing rabbits to the same inevitable demise was all he had.

“Run, rabbit, run...dig that hole, forget the sun...”

Ricks who inescapably fell into the self-aware ritual of _thinking about it_ worshiped themselves in a form of mental self-flagellation so consuming that it was no accident most of his interdimensional counterparts chased the great escape through to the logical conclusion of feeding a bullet to their head.

The nuances of suicide and self-murder were also trivial, when love and hate were two sides of the same addictive sin, and while R preferred choosing to chase elusive spectres of his imagination through tunnels of thought, on days such as this, the alarm ringing in the recesses of his mind obstinately reminded him that, in reality, he was only ever chasing himself into the chaos of his own latent insanity.

It was here where he found the choice he could not make.

Ultimately, it was a question of self.

“R, get up… You’re planning for failure. That’s– That’s even dumber than regular planning.”

He spoke aloud to himself in an attempt to break the looping patterns of thought.  

Simultaneously, he half-heartedly desired to continue chasing the white rabbit of proleptic degradation as it burrowed tunnels of tail-spinning madness ever deeper into his mind.

He chased himself to the edge.

 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_I am not frightened of dying_

  
_Any time will do, I don't mind_  
_Why should I be frightened of dying?_  
_There's no reason for it, you've gotta go sometime_

 

 

_  
If you can hear this whispering you are dying_

 

“Do it. Do it, motherfucker. Do it. Before you– before you lose yourself like he did.”

“–Not that anyone asked, but it’s not worth the effort– the decision to kill yourself always arrives too late.”

R found himself on the hardwood floor, enjoying his last joint to the voice of Syd and the fatalistic orchestrated sounds of _Great Gig in The Sky_ _,_ preparing to push himself over the edge of his life while attached to a lifeline – a thick rope – which had been safely secured around his neck. His swan song bellowed like the vapid mouthpiece of an impersonal cosmic force as he slung bare feet over the edge of his early grave.

R silenced the soundtrack in his memory. He never enjoyed that the ominous song had been playing when he had arrived.

“I can't hear myself think.”

He lifted the glass prism over his head, watching the beam of light shatter into color as it spilled across the lower level of his store, falling on a reflection of himself. He frowned at his own image, surrounded by an aura of dark forebodings. Then he sighed in resignation, angrily tossing the prism back into his wooden box with a curse.

“Fuck. I was hoping I’d get through this before the dam fuckin’ broke.”

His shadow cackled in a haunting laughter as he climbed the stairs to join him, speaking to him with the familiarity of an old friend.

“I’m not some madman voice in your lunatic head Rick, I’m _The_ version of you from the multiverse. So, more specifically, I’m God.”

“Of-fucking-course I would say that megalomaniacal shit.”  

R took another long, drawn out puff of his joint, pointedly holding his breath a few seconds longer than necessary to give his impending suicide a running start.

“Who do you think you are, D-33? You have it all wrong. If there’s a God on the Central Finite Curve, it’s me! – Weird Rick – Not you, some inflection point who can’t even fucking finish the prototype of the portal gun.”

R turned his head to the Rick and indifferently shrugged.

“So _God,_ why reveal yourself to me? Come to teach me that fear is the heart of love…” R paused to stare at the ceiling before smirking. “...If that’s the case, I’m into some _fucked up_ shit.”

“I may be God, but this story isn’t about _you,_ Rick... should’ve just stayed quiet and watched you push yourself over that edge – As far as this deity’s concerned, you’re just in my way – a means to my end.”

R shrugged and returned his gaze to the ceiling.

“– Seems pretty lonely, whatever end it is.”

The Rick fell silent for a moment, before R offered him his joint. The sounds of _Dark Side of The Moon_ continued to silently echo in memory across the empty spaces of his store. Whoever this was, real or imagined, R felt comforted by their presence, and couldn't help but think that embracing insanity wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.  

“Take a hit, so I can try and convince myself that you’re real. Or, at the very least, that there’s someone in my head, but it’s not me...at least, not yet.” R caustically smiled to himself.

Weird Rick accepted the joint from R’s hands with a cheshire cat grin and took a series of puffs. R watched while wringing his hands on the girth of the rope around his neck, its wiry threads making his skin itch. He’d chosen a thicker braid because he didn’t want his neck to break on the impact of the fall.

R had expended a considerable amount of effort into exactly how he wanted to erase himself from existence. After all, it was the only choice that carried any real significance.

He’d chosen for the rope to constrict around his neck, slowly cutting off his oxygen to kill as many brain cells as he could, while the seconds of time measured every excruciating moment between them until he breathed his last.

Time was like that. His life, nothing more than a series of small, near-death experiences, and each beat of his heart bled as if he were living in an open wound that refused to heal. Thoughts of red continued to pulse through the maze his mind was losing itself in.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to turn off for _one fucking second_.”

“Welcome to the club, pal. Ricks can’t ever fucking turn off – That’s their whole deal. Why do you think we built the Citadel of Ricks? _We don’t turn off,_ but at least there things slow down to the speed of light, or at least you find someone who can keep up with a fuckin’ conversation...It’s all relative.”

“The Citadel of Ricks?...What is that? A place to hold the infinite shit behind some sort of dam?”

“Eh, it's really made to keep everyone else out.” The Rick continued to hog R’s joint, taking another puff and holding his breath.

Ricks were the smartest beings in the universe and still couldn't see the value in being human. R glanced at his other self, whose hair was a shade darker, and cut shorter than his own blue. A sharp white streak ran along one side, cutting into his memory. He struggled to find the words. It had been so long since he’d had a conversation with anyone that wasn’t himself.

He paused to reconsider that thought, because he was still, objectively, talking to himself. His thoughts were interrupted by the someone in his head.   

“It's easy to die, Rick. Give yourself a fresh start. I-I mean what’ve you got to lose? Unlike your interdimensional counterparts at this age, it's not like you actually _have_ anyone here in your dimension."

For being someone who refused to admit the value of displaying any sort of emotion, he’d learned to wield it as one of his most valuable weapons. R reluctantly thinned his lips in acknowledgement at the truth of the statement, however.

He’d always been alone with this thoughts.

Over the past few weeks he’d locked himself within the record store and isolated himself from his surrounding neighborhood. Following the natural progression, Weird Rick had shown up in spectacular ex machina fashion to offer R the Citadel’s promise of respite – the utopian promise to save Rick from himself.

“I’ve never had anyone,” he listlessly reflected aloud to no one in particular.

“Yeeessh, let me guess... You’re one of those _abandoned_ Ricks. What’d mom do in this reality – tell you the lie that she loved you, but left anyways? Or did this version of her have the balls to admit she never wanted you to begin with?”

All of the above really wasn’t an answer.

“...Can you make an alcohol so strong, that it could drown out a Rick’s own self-hatred?”

Weird Rick frowned at his implied impotence, before casually tossing out another pseudo-omniscient statement in deflection.

“I gotta admit, strange to see a suicidal Rick who _isn’t_ drinking themselves into a coma. Your alcoholic father must have been a real piece of work. Was that before or after mom apologized for not being strong enough to stay and left you holding the bag?”  

“Fuck you.”

“No no no, _fuck me,_ Rick. You can have yourself – your infinite selves. Don’t deify the people who leave you. Leave everything on this piece of shit behind – just like everything left you – or don't. Stay here on Earth and add your own name to the long list of people who’ve abandoned you.”

R lay in silence as he continued to listen to the Rick’s voice sound, imposingly, over the music he had silenced in his mind as he remembered it.

“If you don’t like it, just kill yourself over there – Fuck, at least then, someone will find the body… I’ve found a few mummified corpses of lonely Ricks. So cut off from everything that they weren’t found for months – I mean, if they were found at all –  wouldn’t know, cause I left ‘em…it’s a special kind of smell– sweet in a way. Heavy...and lingering, like self-doubt.”

Weird Rick picked at the rope R wore and glanced through the store with a lackluster expression, unimpressed.

“Don’t have any cats do you? If you did, I’d say they were let out of the figurative bag a few moments ago, Richard.”

“Rabbits,” R corrected.

Deep down in the depths of his consciousness, R understood the value of emotion. Human intimacy and connection. But even deeper down, he subconsciously understood that he sought it out only when he was at his absolute worst, and his desire for such things was a hedgehog's dilemma.

R was so selfish and desperate for such things that he’d willingly impale himself alongside the other person to have it, even if that fulfilment was only a small moment of mutually assured self-destruction. He checked himself into the institution of the Citadel with the thought that he might find another Rick willing to do the same.

R never wanted to hurt anyone other than himself, but upon arriving at the Citadel he came to know without a shadow of a doubt that the chaos in the spiraling depths of his collective core was self-hatred incarnate.

Ricks hated themselves too much to selfishly share their death in something like self-sacrifice, and they loved themselves too much for consensual homicide.

Hell was other Ricks, and R supposed that the devil he knew in its infinite variations was preferable to the one he didn’t.

There was no different kind of Rick. One only needed the right set of variables to bring that fact to light. Ricks hated themselves, and R hated Ricks too much to end his own life, so instead he condemned himself to suffer.  

“You deserve to live out the rest of your death sentence – pray about it.” Weird Rick shrugged, before rising to his feet with an inviting smirk. He extended his hand to lift the record store owner to his knees before continuing.

R steadied himself beneath the weight of his own revelating thoughts as his reflection pressed a hand saturated with meaning onto his forehead, before slowly tilting R's head upwards to gaze upon his face.

“Pray hard, baby, and I’ll give you what you want. _”_

R sought solace against the terror of his own existence. Commanding fingers moved to the back of R’s head, threading through strands of hair as the record store owner knelt at the altar of his swan song and gazed into his abyss. With a noose still strung around his neck, R impaled himself on the burning flesh of the first and only person he met and truly ever knew – and who knew him.

Ricks were more alike than they were different, and self-hatred not only validated, but affirmed their collective existence, and in a moment of sheer ecstasy, R shamelessly worshipped it when there was no meaning left to find in the consuming darkness.

He irreverently cursed around the cock he was praying on until his knees were bruised.  

“Fuck me.”

A voice cut through the abyss with a moan, accepting and welcoming R to find meaning in the sacrosanct chaos of their existence.  
  
“That’s it, baby. Fucking worship me.”

At the penultimate crossroads of his life, R took a leap of faith.

A lamb to the cosmic slaughter.

 

_“No te preocupes, Conejo.”_

 

He whispered the words into R's ear as if he had imparted to him a sacred blessing.

Time slowed to a relative trickle on the Citadel, but R continued to run on its circular wheel, ticking away the inconsequential moments of a quiet unchanging routine that measured nothing.  

Time would only ever move forward, but could only be experienced in reverse.

 

 

Always in reverse.

 

 

Always in reverse.

 

 

Always spinning counterclockwise, a perpetual motion in reverse.

 

 

 

Within the subjective experience of his own mind, R had subjectively experienced far more time than he had ever been meant to live.

The alarm ringing throughout his clockwork life reminded him that he would forever be late for his early grave.

Ultimately, it was a question of existence.

“I don't _know_ why I fuckin’ choose to rot like a preserved corpse in this glass coffin. _I don't know_ why the fuck I can’t choose to airlock myself out.”

He shouted at himself to return his thoughts to his current reality. He continued to stare at the ceiling with dead eyes, exhausted by his own precarious cognizance.

“I can’t change.”

R had either despaired the Rick he was, or agonized over the Rick he thought he wasn’t, and, depending on the day, the question of identity was either an unstoppable force or an inescapable curse.

The paradox of the infinite Rick was that Ricks never really changed, because the Citadel was an institution of imprisonment so total that it insidiously corroded the very self-awareness that allowed Ricks the ability to measure any value surrounding their own existence.

It was a viciously spinning, inescapable feedback loop of dark euphoria, and time's perpetual shadow held R captive in the swirling darkness of his mind.

Although R was self-aware enough to see and rationalize the links of his own constraints, he doubted that he would ever be able to free himself enough to fully experience living.

 

*** 

 

 

 _I know Heaven is a mind state, I've been a couple times_  
_Stuck in my ways so I keep on falling down_

 _Keep on fallin' down_  
_Keep on fallin' down_

 _Gimme drink, gimme smoke, get me high, let me float_  
_I'm a cloud, comin' down,_  
_Put me down, gentle now_

 _Gimme drink, gimme dope, bottom line, I can't cope_  
_If I die, I don't know_

 _I don't know,_  
_I don't know_

 

“Your love was never enough.”  

His mother had always loved him, until the day she left.

She loved him because she had to – an effigy of the mother that she needed to be for him, out of a sense of duty… Obligation. But she never wanted him, and while she questionably never had the heart to tell him those words, R had always known. The greater truth within the lie revealed itself when she told him how much she loved him, and, in the same breath, promised she would be right back.

She never came back.

 

_Love._

 

The cold, hard, truth was that she only “loved” him because he needed her.

He was never enough.

All love ever did for R was result in a deeply internalized feeling of never being wanted.

 

_“You’re a worthless piece of shit who took everything from me, Richard. You were a mistake and she stopped loving me the second you were born – the reason she left. And now I’m stuck raising your ungrat–_

_–Get a smart mouth with me again! I’ll beat your fuckin’ ass – teach you to fear me, if you don’t fear anyone else – I’ll put the fear of God in you.”_

 

It was only fitting that he was named after that sick fuck. 

Institutionalized to his own fear of abandonment, he stayed by his abusive, alcoholic father’s side, believing it was better to have someone… anyone... than no one. Believing that the person who had loved him most, hadn’t loved him at all.

The only love his father had ever taught him was fear.

“You’re nothing like him.”

 

_You’re everything like him._

 

Then, his father left him– cirrhosis hemorrhaging his vital organs after a weekend bender. R had found him, deliriously rambling nonsensical thoughts, while wallowing in his own shit and piss. As R helped him clean the mess, he discovered that his father’s papery skin had begun to rot from the inside out into a cautionary yellow hue. Richard passed a few hours later, shitting himself once more.

His parting gift was a deeply rooted self-hatred, which R saw in the face of every Rick’s struggle with alcoholism. Daily, in his own reflection.

The ability to let another burn at his expense was a trait he had both inherited and cultivated since birth, and his father lived in the worst parts of himself. R understood that, intrinsically, he was poison. He should never have been born, but he never asked to be.

And now, thrown into an existence that he did not choose, he couldn't change that.

But, long ago, R had accepted the things he could not change, and he obsessively labored in worship of the rituals that allowed him to control the things he could.

And there was something about having a routine that helped R cope with the stress of living an everyday life. Predictability and expectation were the things that gave him an overall sense of being in control.

But the truth, cold and uncaring as the void, was that he had never been in control.

In fact, R had failed to live up to the fundamental thesis of his existence, which was to act _as if_ anything mattered.

Effort was a stupid goal.

 

“...”

 

Instead, he chased rabbits like a worthless piece of shit who couldn’t take care of himself mentally or emotionally, and now a Morty had entered into his life, and his blood would inevitably be on R’s hands.

R never wanted to hurt anyone that wasn’t himself, but now, his problems were no longer his own. They had potentially affected another person, and instead of understanding and accepting the irrational rose-tinted emotion underlying his attraction to the boy with the impossibly soft crimson hair and intoxicating clover eyes–

Instead of opening himself to emotional vulnerability with the boy who loved the Beatles, and had a contagious laugh that bloomed like the stickiest bud…  

Instead of welcoming the boy who entered into his most vulnerable spaces with grace and love, R continued to rationalize, through clandestine confessions that trembled on his lips, because fear was the only form of love he had ever truly believed in.

 

“He made the Citadel stop spinning.”

 

R whispered to himself, barely an aural sound, spoken with a deeply fearful, hushed tone. The boy’s name, withheld from his tongue, trembled like a secret sweet nothing in the forefront of his mind.

 

_He made the Citadel stop spinning._

 

In Mortys presence, all the words he ever wanted to say had slipped into the empty void of his mind, and before he’d even realized it, before he could stop it – The change had already happened. Morty was the first beautiful thing that he had become obsessed with, and R shook in fear – in awe of the presence in his life as it revealed itself to him.  

 

“You don’t deserve him.”

 

He was terrified to the core of his being for wanting it, despite.

R was more afraid of himself than anything else.

Ricks were deeply dangerous in the ways they expressed love, and Mortys were willingly caught in the trajectory of their spinning gravitational orbit – offering themselves like starry-eyed sacrifices to a Rick's god-complex and religion of self-hatred.

His Morty was already dressed in crimson red like a fatalistic omen of R's worst fears.

R wasn’t sure if he could choose to do the work to break free of his natural hardwired default setting of being deeply and literally self-centered on the Citadel. If he couldn’t, then Morty would likely follow him wherever that path led.

 

***

 

 

 

_Is there anybody out there?_

 

He called out from within his thoughts as he drifted further into the dark side of the moon.  

He'd stopped talking to himself long ago. He'd given up on the idea that he could hear himself. That anyone could hear his calls for help. Brick by brick, he had completely isolated himself behind the walls of his own mind.

 

_Hey you,_

_Out there in the cold  
_ _Getting lonely, getting old_

 _  
_ _Can you feel me?_

 

R was comfortably numb. So lost within the isolated monologue of his own voice in the darkness that he failed to hear the steady heartbeat thrum warmly sounding on the glass on his storefront door. Eventually, the resounding sound penetrated the silence, interrupting his thoughts.

 

_Hey you,_

_Don't help them to bury the light  
_ _Don't give in without a fight_

 

He turned his head to the side and looked down across the lower level of his store to glimpse Morty, hysterically drumming a fist against the glass barrier.

Listlessly, he stared out the window for a few moments, before understanding that something was different about Morty today. Something had changed.

 

_Hey you,_

_With your ear against the wall_ _  
_ _Waiting for someone to call out_

 _  
_ _Would you touch me?_

 

“You’re gonna fuck him up anyways, get the fuck up and let him in.”   

R indulged his self-hatred. He sat up on the bed and waved to Morty through the glass, momentarily hoping that the kid would leave him alone to be by himself, but his pounding did not cease. R buried his face in his hands to take a few stabilizing breaths before slipping on a pair of pants and slowly made his way to the front door.

 

  
_Hey you,_

_Would you help me to carry the stone?_

 

As the teen’s expression came into view, R picked up speed. Morty looked disheveled, eyes wide in panic, and R felt himself jogging, then running across the storefront to open the door. He released the lock, and before he could fully pull the door open, terrified arms pushed through and had wrapped around him in a tight hug that pushed their weight backwards into the store.  

“R! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry I’m late for Church!”

R didn’t know what time it was, but the artificial dusk glow of his broken day suggested that it was well past 4:20. He had been in bed for hours without realizing.

He didn’t care what time it was. R had wanted to see Morty so much that his vision burned as he returned the hug, feeling the warmth of his presence, and Morty trembled in his far-too-tight embrace, reeking of alcohol. When R pulled him closer the red-haired boy seized up briefly, before burying his wet face into the man’s chest with shaky breaths that were actively fighting to hold back tears.

Morty was already fucked by whatever Rick he was with.

And no one could help R.

Nonetheless, they found themselves calling to each other from the opposite sides of the same barrier of chaos that divided them.

R tightened his hold around Morty, feeling the widening cracks of the boy who was beginning to fall apart in his embrace. As R continued to hold onto him, he felt his world stop spinning, and for the first time in his day, he felt like he could breathe.

 

He hated himself for taking his next breath.

 

He felt the quiet pulse of his heart pound in alarm against his chest, and they held each other in mutually terrified silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Omnipotence Paradox:** Weird Rick has a god-complex the size of God’s ego, so naturally R would bring this classic philosophical thought experiment into a conversation. [The Starry AU Has a Fic about him. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17166845/chapters/40363664)
> 
> **Radical Freedom, R’s Choices & Bad Faith: **Weird Rick’s assertion that R could make a choice to start over on the Citadel is reflective of Sartre's notion of radical freedom, which asserted that everyone always has a choice, and every act is a free act, even the choice of death. He called mauvaise foi (“bad faith”), the habit that people have of deceiving themselves into thinking that they do not have the freedom to make choices for fear of the potential consequences of making a choice. 
> 
> Much of R’s ritualistic behavior is a result of R participating in the illusion of giving himself control over his life through choice, but he believes hatred, specifically self-hatred and fear, are unchangeable cornerstones of his identity. Sartre might argue that R is making a choice in bad faith, and that his self-hatred is as much of a blind ritual/addiction/worship as the rest of his behaviors – fully within his choice and control – R is just unable to see his own contradiction, fearing the responsibility of having to bear the burden of true choice.
> 
>  **Cioran On Madness, Suicide & the Philosophy of Pessimism:** “The decision to kill yourself always arrives too late.” is a quote from Emil Cioran, a philosopher who explored pessimism, and believed the function of suicide ideation was to find relief in the potential that you could take your life at any given moment, therefore giving you control and choice over it. Note: Pessimism as a philosophy is not to be confused as the equivalent of suicide or depression. 
> 
> R’s is fundamentally pessimistic. His perspective is that all Ricks are so deplorably unethical, that the best thing they could do is embrace a collective suicide, or at the very least deny their nature. R’s attempt to use choice to control the kind of Rick he is, and remain self-aware and turn on, reflect his darkest ideas about his collective self. 
> 
> **R calls his loneliness on the Citadel a hedgehog's dilemma:** This metaphor, used by both existentialist Arthur Schopenhauer and Sigmund Freud, explores the challenges of human intimacy. It describes a situation in which a group of hedgehogs seek to move close to one another to share warmth. They must remain apart, however, as they cannot avoid hurting one another with their sharp spines. Though they all share the intention of a close reciprocal relationship, this may not occur, for unavoidable reasons. 
> 
> **White Rabbit (1967)** One of Grace Slick's earliest songs, written during either late 1965 or early 1966. It uses imagery found in the fantasy works of Lewis Carroll—1865's _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ and its 1871 sequel _Through the Looking-Glass._ Slick was also inspired by "the bolero.” 
> 
> Slick stated, “The White Rabbit is your curiosity" in allusion to Carroll's story. For her and others in the 1960’s, drugs were a part of mind expansion and social experimentation. With its enigmatic lyrics, White Rabbit became one of the first songs to sneak drug references past censors on the radio. 
> 
> **Great Gig In The Sky (1973)** is about life gradually descending into death. The angrier and more intense first half illustrates a dying person refusing to "go gently into that good night." The second half is gentler, as the dying person gives into the inevitable and fades away. When the band was working on Dark Side of the Moon, most of the songs didn't have titles. They referred to this section as "The Religious Section" or "The Mortality Sequence." 
> 
> **K.O.D. (2018)** The recurring theme of K.O.D. is the pain that makes people escape into addictive behavior. If features Kill Edward, J Cole's alter ego, who is an addict that uses drugs and alcohol as his coping mechanism. Cole explained that he tried to channel things he didn't like about himself into the Kill Edward character, who was inspired by his stepfather.
> 
> _"When I say Kill Edward, what I'm talking about is shit that I feel like I inherited from him," he said. "There's aspects of myself that I wanted to overcome and beat, I feel like I got that from him… Cleansing myself of that traumatic experience."_
> 
>  **Hey You (1979)** Like Comfortably Numb, David Gilmour and Roger Waters share lead vocals on this track. At The Wall concerts (where a wall was constructed on stage, dividing the band from the audience), this was the first song from behind the completed wall.
> 
> The line ''Will you help me carry the stone'' is a reference to the myth of sisyphus, who Albert Camus wrote at length about. Roger relates the imagery in this myth to the thematic bricks of isolation in The Wall album.


	8. A Lot of Starving Faithful (This is Hungry Work)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every Rick Worships._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TWs** Explicit violence, Gaslighting, Domestic Abuse, Forced Drug Usage, Implied Non-Con, Substance Abuse  
>   
>  Spoiler Summary Feature is Disabled. Click "Show Creator's Style" at the top of this page to activate. (Mobile Friendly)
> 
> All the songs for this fic in one spotify playlist: [ Crimson & Clover on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue/playlist/69x5YgmwyLdrcdUtgCrP6y)

_Not to touch the earth_  
_Not to see the sun_  
_Nothing left to do, but_  
_Run, run, run_

_Let's run_

“I'm so sorry – I’m sorry, R.”

Morty wobbled in place, apologizing for being late once more. R waved him off, immediately turning toward Church.

“You apologized enough, don’t worry about it, kid.”

His head spun a bit as he chased after the record store owner who was walking too fast, pausing to take in R’s nude torso, realizing that R _was_ a bit younger than the other Ricks...or maybe...he was older, because R said that time on the Citadel was slower.

“You’re not wearing a shirt, R.”

“And _you’re_ clearly drunk. What's with the change in the routine?”

 

***

 

“Where the fuck have been you going Red-shirt?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I’m out. You’re leaving for work too early.”

Morty tightened his grip around the door handle. He thought he was being careful enough that it wouldn't become a topic of conversation again, and he hadn’t mentioned R since Rick had found the stash of weed in his backpack.

“I’ve uh, I’ve been looking for new music for my turntable.”

He really didn’t want to have this conversation with Rick again. He offered an olive branch.  

“I’ll make sure to grab more Triple X after my shift. I’ll put it on my tab for you.”

Rick frowned, but backed off, changing the tone of his voice and speaking under his breath.

“You know I don’t like that fuckin’ record store.”

Although it was framed in such a way that allowed Rick to sound like he was opening a conversation, he would do no such thing, and Morty knew it was a clear warning, but he chose to ignore it anyways.

“I’m just getting high and listening to music before work!”

“Yeah, Red-shirt? Is that all you’re doing?” Rick entered into his space accusingly, pinching Morty’s chin to force the boy to look at him, pulling his hand from the door handle. His breath was heavy with an alcohol scent, and Morty wondered how drunk he was today.

“You brought home an ounce! Then y-you came home acting like you’d been roofied!”

“It was just a cookie!”

Rick pulled Morty away from the door, throwing his weight toward their small bed, causing the redhead to fold over its edge. Morty began to apologize when Rick reached down to grip the teen by the arm in an angry, strangulating hold.

“You ever stop’n think about how you sneaking around with another Rick – You even think about how that makes me feel? No, cause you only think about yourself!”

Sometimes Rick’s jealousy made Morty feel important. That Rick was controlling because he cared about Morty. That it was better to be in a relationship with him than in no relationship at all, because most Ricks wouldn’t be willing to put up with a Morty like him.  

Maybe It was easier to convince himself that he was in love with Rick.

“I’m sorry, Rick. I-I-I didn’t think–”

“–That’s your problem, Red-Shirt, you never fuckin’ think!” Rick insidiously hissed in his ear, reminding Morty of the truth.

“Y-You think that Rick’s gonna want to put up with your shit like I do? – when your actual Rick didn’t even want to? You're so fucked up, Red, you’d be _lucky_ to find a Rick who even wants to give you the time of day.”

“...Don't call me that.”

“I'll call you whatever the fuck I want, _Red.”_

Anger flared within Morty, and he tried to push Rick away, but was quickly overpowered. Rick fisted the redhead’s hair, reaching into his labcoat pocket to remove his flask, unscrewing the cap with his thumb and forefinger.

He purposefully clenched his fist into the tresses, wringing Morty’s hair with a firm upward tug, and when the teen cried out in pain, Rick shoved the lip of the flask into his mouth, tilting it into Morty and forcing him to drink from it.

Through coughing gasps, Morty tried to protest around the fetid liquid as it burned its way into his throat and stomach, but the sudden, quick breaths only drew the liquid further into his lungs, making him choke and convulse violently as he fought to swim against the continuous stream.

Rick held him in place while continuing to force fire into him. His lungs seared as the alcohol clawed its way into soft tissue and bled through his sinuses. The evaporating fumes burned against his eyes as he gasped for air as the current began to slow and his nose ran.

The older man pulled the flask away to take a long swig before pouring the remainder over Morty in ceremonious fashion, beginning with his forehead and traveling down to his chest as Morty burned in humiliation.

With an angry hand, he forced his way into Morty’s pocket, fingers digging to reveal R’s white lighter, and posessively snarled at it, before flicking it to life and threateningly held it seconds from his alcohol soaked body. Morty froze in absolute fear, not daring to tear his gaze from the lit fuse in Rick’s hand.

“If you’re gonna whore yourself out for drugs with him you’re gonna fuckin’ do it with me.”

He had always thought the dancing lighter flame was beautiful. Often, he watched it move through R’s expert hands as it flickered – its elusive essence brought to life through R’s touch. It danced with burning passion, lit from within.

The flame Rick held before him now was quiet and still, burning its reserves of fuel just to cast light. It was only as beautiful and breathtaking as it was deadly. Rick held a volatile gaze against him as Morty continued to stare at the light in his hands. He looked up to into the black holes of Rick’s possessing eyes. There was only one Rick Morty would have followed to the grave, and it wasn’t him.

It wasn't him, because this Rick was afraid of losing him.     

This Rick was nothing like his grandfather.

Still terrified, Morty calmly reached out, his heart racing, and extinguished the flame with his thumb, ignoring the pain. He nodded, holding Rick's hand for a moment before leaning forward, alcohol still falling from his locks of hair in thick droplets, and kissed him as if his life depended on it.

It was how Rick wanted to be kissed.

 

***

 

Morty glanced down at the fingerprint bruises clear on his arm, resting a hand over them.

“Uh, I’m– I’m drunk...because I wanna get high with you.”

With dead eyes and a practiced, unrevealing expression, R calmly looked over his shoulder at the redhead as he passed by shelves of records.

“Looks like you’re having the same kind of shit day I am, Morty.”

He slowed his pace, and stilled his movements for a second.

“...you alright now?”

Morty nodded, holding back a wave of emotion. There was nothing else he could say. After Rick had passed out, Morty had quietly left his apartment in Morty Town before sprinting to the record store. He had been terrified of being late for Church, and of R telling him to never show his face again. Rick and Silent Morty were not out front when he had arrived. It was long past 4:20. Morty should have been running the opposite direction to work.

As he ran toward the record store, he also thought about how good it might feel to tell R everything about Labcoat Rick. He imagined how nice it would feel to have R wrap his arms around him in Church. How nice it would be for R to ask him to stay, but R had already stated that he didn't want him in that way.

Morty knew he wasn’t wanted, and he didn’t want R to think he was incapable of making good decisions like everyone else.

 

_“That Rick is a fucking nutcase, Red-Shirt! You think he likes you? You’ll never be anything more to him than a pair of fuckin’ hands, and the second you bring your shit into his life, he’ll be done with you. Even a broken Rick doesn't want a broken Morty.”_

 

The first day he had come to R’s record store was like today.

 

_“Leave! If you’re the kind of Morty who wants to leave, then I didn’t fuckin’ want you anyways!”_

 

Leaving was easy, but it was hard to figure out where to go. There was no one, or nowhere, to go – not on the Citadel. He’d stopped talking to his friends, and the Citadel police never cared about the same old story. So when Morty ran away from Rick he went on an aimless walk, not even realizing that he’d travelled all the way into the Heights.

When he came across the record store he ended up aimlessly looking through shelves of music, knowing he would eventually have to go back to his apartment. His life was in a complete standstill, and he wasn’t going anywhere, but at least being able to forget himself and listen to some music was a nice break. He had been really thankful to come across the store.

Maybe if Church didn't work out he would still be able to have that. Morty internally prepared himself for the worst, however.

“Hey R…”

He wasn’t like every other Morty who brought all their problems to a Rick. He wanted to apologize again, but instead forced himself to ask around his guilt, because R was clearly irritated with his attempts to further apologize. His footing fell off-balance, but he caught himself.

“Are you sure, you... you wanted me to come back today? I was– I was late.” Morty caught his voice and stabilized the emotion behind it. “And that was your rule.”

R sighed, holding open the beaded curtain for Morty, insisting he walk through first. He placed a hand on Morty’s back as he stepped into the space, sliding it up to lightly squeeze his shoulder. The gesture was full of silent thoughts, and his expression was regretful.  

“I… I also said that rule was shit. You're not dumb Morty, I'm sure you've figured out why I set fuckin’ – unrealistic... I want you to come back everyday, kid…I’m always fuckin’ late in this life anyways, so it really doesn't even matter.”

Over the past few weeks, Morty had learned more about this strange Rick. R had an idiosyncratic lifestyle, and everyday he followed the same routines with little variance. Morty wasn’t sure – it seemed like he was afraid of time, but was also obsessed with it. There was not a single clock in the record store, but R had some sort of infallible internal clock, and he’d never allowed Morty to stay in Church longer than the hour of 4:20, walking him to the front door to send him off. Morty had to convince himself, daily, that R wasn’t mad at him, because it was always so abrupt.

R had also told Morty that he was afraid of change, and although it was not Morty’s fault, the teen’s presence in his life had greatly changed his schedules and routines. Church was important for R, because, for whatever reason, it allowed him to allow Morty to come back everyday, and although Morty didn’t understand it, the rules and expectations were clear.

 

_“The commandment is this: 4:20 must be observed. If we’re gonna– if you wanna be smoke buds, then everyday your ass needs to be in this room, on time, no exceptions. You don’t have to smoke everyday – you just have to physically be here. If you can't do that, then I can’t smoke with you.”_

 

Today, Morty had broken his promise. He had been late. And while R did not blame Morty, he’d been laying in bed when the teen arrived at his store. All of the lights had been off, and R seemed different. Distant and impatient. For him to say something like time didn’t matter, worried Morty.       

“R...are _you_ okay?”

“I-I’m somewhere over the rainbow– livin’ in my head all day chasing rabbits.”

That didn’t qualify as a “yes” or “no” answer, but it was the only one that R had been willing to give. At least his non-answer had been honest. Morty suppressed the urge to apologize again for not being fully honest with R. He didn't know if he was alright.

“C’mon kid, we’re late for Church...”

R removed a strange glass pipe that looked similar to a bong, but seemed closer to a chemistry beaker. He set down a metal rod, a small jar, and a gun looking object beside it.  

“Is that an oil burner? I think I've seen those at work.”

“Mmm, those were likely crack pipes, kid. No offense, but that Morty Mart you work at isn't exactly selling – there used to be bars in front of the register – it isn’t exactly catering to the weed audience.”

“So what is that?”

“This is a cathedral dab rig, taken from the place of honor in the reliquary because it will knock me off my ass...save it for days like today. It's my last resort before Sun Rocks or 322.”

Morty didn’t know what Sun Rocks were, but 322 was an extremely expensive and potent alcohol in the Citadel. He’d never seen it, but customers often asked him, while working at the Morty Mart, if he carried it. It seemed that R did drink, when he had no other options.

“Why don’t _you_ ever drink, R?”

“I do, but alcohol sends me straight to chaos... tends to makes me feel more alone. Weed is uh, a little more cosmic, makes me feel...I don't mind being alone, but I never liked feeling lonely.”

“Want me to find a lighter?” Morty offered, but decided to relax into the beanbag instead. The second he attempted to move, the room began to swirl around him. He took a deep breath.

“Nah, kid, you use a torch or a laser for this.”  

R lifted the hand torch in demonstration, clicking it on and firing a stream of blue flame onto the quartz nail of the pipe. Morty jumped at the sight of the fire, and he watched the unpleasant memories return to him in an instant and felt sick.

He remembered R had mentioned that weed helped with feelings of nausea. Maybe smoking would help. It would definitely help him relax.

“S-So how do we smoke out of it?” Morty was unsure if he liked the rig and it’s lacklustre use. The rituals surrounding ideas of making love – and the careful conscious motions that R had painstakingly taught him, were missing. Morty wasn’t sure why the thought that R wasn’t enjoying this experience disturbed him as much as it had.   

“ _You_ aren't gonna smoke out of this kid – you've been drinking – probably shouldn't even be hitting a regular pipe with me tonight.”

“I can...I can handle it.”

“Even if you were sober, this shit is more potent than dry herb kid. I'm not gonna let – even try to help you get fuckin’ crunk tonight. Trust me, Morty, you hit this and you're gonna have a bad time… Why don't you just pick the music?”

He seemed angry, but Morty couldn't determine whether R was upset with himself or toward Morty.

“Are you mad at me?”

“You gonna believe me if I say no?”

Morty was silent and R continued the line of thought.

“Then why ask? It’s Rick-torical.”

R continued to motion the concentrated flame over the glass, and Morty groaned, before reluctantly crawling across the carpet to pick a song. He queued up a single song before the task became too straining and he motioned to return to the beanbag, failing to make it and instead rested his head in his arms on the coffee table.

“I'm mad at myself,” R quietly added.

Morty wondered if it was all the running that had made him feel sick. His stomach roiled and he clenched his eyes and drifted into a sea of emotional thoughts.

 

_Whats wrong with me?_  
_Why do I feel like this?_  
_I’m going crazy..._

 

R clicked off the hand torch, and rose the metal wand onto the the glass platform, pulling air through the piece as he did so. The chamber bubbled and quickly filled with smoke that R drank of in a continuous stream as if he were dying of thirst.  

Morty listened to the music and passively watched R, and continued to swim through distorted thoughts.

 

 _No more gas in the red – Can't even get it started_  
_Nothing heard, nothing said – Can't even speak about it_  
_All my life on my head – Don't want to think about it_  
_Feels like I'm going insane, yeah_

 

When R told him he was afraid of change Morty internally laughed, because he felt all he had ever done was change too much for someone else. Maybe that was all Ricks and Mortys, however. No matter how he changed himself it never worked.

R lay back against the bean bag, closing his eyes, and Morty glanced at the dab rig. It seemed simple enough. He could hit it. He wanted to prove to R that he could handle smoking with him, and felt like he needed to smoke with R to make things right. He reached for the rig, and clumsily followed R’s lead.

 

 _Your mind is in Disturbia, it's like the darkness is the light – Disturbia  
_ _Am I scaring you tonight?_

 _Your mind is in Disturbia, ain't used to what you like – Disturbia  
_ _Disturbia_

 _Release me from this curse I'm in  
_ _I've been trying to maintain, but I'm struggling_

 

R opened his eyes at the sound of bubbling and looked mildly impressed before his face washed over in anger as Morty coughed out the smoke.

“–Dammit Morty!”

“I to~ld you I could handle it, R! I can smoke with you!”

“It's not fucking – about being able to fucking handle it kid! You're mixing hard shit and have no idea what the _fuck_ you're using! _Fuck_!”

Morty's eyes narrowed at R in mutual frustration, and was about to ask the record store owner if that was what he had meant to say yesterday– after he’d come onto him then rejected him. That R also had no idea what he was doing, but his stomach lurched and he felt the taste of bile rise on his tongue in warning.

“R, I don't feel so good.”

_“No sabes?”_

He heard R swear once more as Morty held his hand over his mouth, feeling a flood of warm vomit spill through his fingers and down the front of his clothes.

“I'm sorry,” Morty apologized, drunkenly holding chunks in his hand, telling himself he wouldn’t cry. He didn’t like that R had raised his voice like that. His emotions churned in his stomach and fled into his head.   

“Just – fuckin’. Stay put for a minute.”

R hoisted himself up from the beanbag and left Church, returning with a warm rag, a bucket, and a t-shirt. He knelt in front of Morty and brushed the rag over his cheek. Morty flinched at the far too gentle touch, before grabbing for the rag, offering to drunkenly clean himself. Another wave of vomit rose and he felt R shove the bucket into his chest. A hand pressed against his back and rubbed it as Morty expelled himself.

“I'm sorry.” He choked out another apology.

R ignored it and instead sighed. “Eh, I’d be lying if didn’t admit I was impressed. You really go after it kid...usually that's not a bad thing, especially for a Morty – But...I don’t want you chasin’ after my rabbits.”

Morty set the bucket down, and R tugged at the hem of his sleeve.

“Here, borrow one of my shirts while I wash these real fast. It smells like you were baptized in an ocean of everclear.”

Morty moved to tug his shirt off but paused with a burp and a hiccup. He drunkenly pushed R away.

“D-dont look.”

He could feel R roll his eyes. “Kid, I'm not some blushing virgin who can't keep it in his pants.”

“Just...don't look, okay?”

R turned around with an irritated sigh, still squatting on the carpet.

“Sure, whatever, kid. I won't look. But me not looking isn't gonna hide the bruises I've been pretending not to see for the past few weeks.” He extended the clean fabric and the rag to him. “Try not to get puke on my carpet.”

Morty's stomach flipped anew as R called him out without any hesitation. He knew it wouldn't stop him from knowing, but that didn't mean he wasn't still ashamed of the idea of R seeing them on him. Seeing the past few weeks. Seeing a few hours ago, today. He tugged his shirt off and shucked his pants away, crumpling them into a messy pile at his side with the rag.

He pulled on the shirt R had given him, and couldn't find the words when he looked at the pattern. It was R’s favorite Pink Floyd shirt.

“Okay.”

R turned, and studied Morty for a long pause, deeply blushing at the sight of the redhead wearing his favorite band shirt. His eyes quickly flicked downward and he smirked before teasing.

“Good thing only one of us goes commando, kid.”

He chuckled, reaching for the pile of messy clothes, and R’s eyes stole another quick glance of Morty, before rushing out of the room.

“Be careful with it,” he faintly called after R, speaking of his red shirt.

“Keep the bucket close!” A call traveled down from the upper level in response. Morty spread himself out on the carpet, feeling its fringes as his mind unsteadily wobbled, hearing the distant distorted sounds of footsteps and running water. The room spun around Morty, and he tugged the bucket closer to him. His vomit sloshed in the container, stirring the scent of acid and alcohol, and he felt comforted and relieved to know that his body was trying to get rid of the poison before drifting off to sleep.

 

***

 

“Rick, where am I?”

Morty woke up in a panic, not knowing where he was.

“–I was wondering if your wasted, twink-ass was at the level of alcohol poisoning or blackout.”

Morty felt the carpet and looked at the brightly colored walls, remembering he was in Church, with R. Morty’s shirt had been hiked up, and the redhead quickly moved to cover himself when he caught sight of the older man in the doorway watching him, remembering pieces of the last few hours. R stared at Morty with a silent burning gaze, and he knew that R had seen the fresh marks and bruises on him.

Today, Morty hadn’t wanted to see them, but he knew they were there all the same. They burned with every breath, and every stretch of muscle, and every remembrance. R said nothing, however, and made his way back to the beanbag. He sank down into it, before leaning forward, resting his chin on his hand in contemplation.

“I washed your shirt. I uh, I also called your Morty Mart. Told ‘em you were sick.”

Morty abruptly sat up from the carpet with a panicked expression, and immediately the room spun around him. He palmed his eyes, trying to get himself to sober up.

“Nooooo, R. My boss is already really mad at me cause Rick's been trying to get… He doesn't like that I work there – Manager Rick already gave me a warning.”

“Yeah, well, your manager bitched about having to cover your shift for a good minute, before bitching about you not letting him know you were at least alive. He’s not gonna fire you... Not like you would’ve have been sober or functional anyways.”

Morty felt his lip begin to quiver. R had meant well, but he didn’t understand. His manager at the Morty Mart understood, and would have let him work, even if he had shown up drunk, because going to work gave Morty somewhere else to go. He couldn’t lose his job. He drunkenly tried to explain to the stoner, hearing his voice crack. 

“I don’t want to go back to my apartment, R. I wanted to go to work.”

He caught the emotions on his breath and looked away from R as tears burned behind his red eyes. The record store owner was going to kick him out of Church, and Morty had nowhere else to go but back to him.

He palmed his eyes to wipe away the tears, too afraid to show them. He wasn’t ready to go back yet, and he stared at the carpet, blinking back a fresh wave of tears in determined silence. Suddenly, R cursed before speaking as he lifted the torch to the rig, heating it up again.

“Fuck. Okay. Give me a minute kid… Let me get _really_ fucking high off of this wax so I can tell you to stay, without causing another fuckin mental breakdown today.”

R dipped his head down to take another excessive hit from the dab rig. His body convulsed as he fought against the large intake of smoke, but R held it in an internal battle, before expelling a smooth stream into the room.

“There’s some bread on the table. Eat as much as you can – put something in your stomach. It'll...It’ll hurt less if you hurl again.”

The veteran stoner quickly followed the first hit with another, and Morty watched him with a frown, saddened by the desperation in his actions. He reached out toward the bread and forced himself to take a few bites as his nerves began to swim.    

“Why are you so afraid of me?”

“Don't flatter yourself kid.” R coughed out the tail end of a stream of smoke. “That rabbit hole goes _a lot_ deeper than you, and I'm the one digging my own…”

R trailed off to take a final hit from the rig and leaned back in his beanbag as his eyes burned red, finally able to relax a bit. He expressed a deep, releasing sigh as if announcing his decision to let go, before turning his head to catch Morty’s silent following gaze.

Carefully, he held out an arm, extending the quiet offer as he gestured for Morty to join him, and cautiously, the teen crawled closer, hesitating, before climbing onto the beanbag with him. It was such a soft-spoken desire, to simply be held by the older man.  

“The room…it won't stop moving, R.”

“It's just the spins. Nothing you can do but ride it out, kid. I’ve got you…’M not going anywhere.”

With still wobbly movements, Morty sat to the side of him, and tossed his legs over R’s, who pulled him into his chest and tucked the boy’s head under his chin. Morty tried to ignore the thoughts that suggested that this was a trick, or some test the record store owner was giving the teen after insisting he didn’t want to become closer to him.

“You’re afraid of wanting me.” He continued the earlier, dropped conversation by making an assertion that his sober self wouldn't have dared. R’s motions stilled for a moment before resuming.

“It’s not you I’m afraid of, kid. It’s me. I’m struggling to live in two places at once.”  

R breathed deep against him, filling himself with clean air, and unconsciously pulled the redhead into a tight, momentary hug, as if Morty's thoughts about the stoner had been weighing heavily on his mind. The older man sighed with his entire body, and Morty continued to drunkenly interrogate him.

“What are we doing?”

“...Let’s not call it anything tonight. You need a hug, kid. Why do we have to put a name to it? – Because if we’re gonna do that, I’m gonna call it a _bad fucking idea_...”  

The older man lamented with another strong exhale as he continued to caress small comforting circles into his back, pulling the boy closer to him. Sensations swirled around Morty as he escaped into the feeling of R’s comfort as the record store owner spoke to him in contradictions.

“Let’s just be here now, and run away for a bit.”

 

 

 _Is that the stars in the sky, or is it_  
_Rain falling down_  
_Will it burn me if I touch the sun  
So big, so round_

 _Would I be truthful, yeah, in_  
_Choosing you as the one for me?  
Is this love, baby_

_Or is it just confusion?_

For Morty, R’s immersive presence itself was a high. Inviting and warm in a way that could only be described as evoking the feeling of having finally found a quiet respite. A sanctuary, where he found a warm comfort in its unchanging familiarity. It carried the scent of age – well worn nostalgia: slightly musky, like the shelves of old abandoned records re-tracing lines of forgotten songs; pungent, like the oils of fresh, sticky weed; smouldering, like the mesmerizing, coiling, endless wisps of lingering thoughts that stretched like smoke, only visible when caught in the rays of sunlight.

R was soft-spoken but strong-willed, immersed in the loud vibrating colors of life and music that spun around him as the single fixed point in his own universe, and Morty wanted to escape into him.

 

 _My mind is so messed up_  
_Going round and round_  
_Must there be all the colours_  
_Without names, without sound, baby?_

R smelled like Church, and Morty breathed in the sensation, closing his eyes and pressing his nose into R’s skin to experience it in full. The older man remained quiet and restful. His eyes had fallen to a close, and he lazily brushed his fingers through the red tresses of the teen’s hair as he further relaxed into his high.

 

 _My heart burns with feeling, but_  
_My mind, it's cold and reeling_  
_Is this love, baby  
Or is it just confusion?_

R squeezed Morty’s hand and the teen blushed while continuing to press his face against R’s bare chest. Most of the Ricks he had been with were covered in some form of scars, and they were often a source of pride, but R only had one. It ran alongside his torso, just above his hip, and looked faded. Morty absently reached out to run fingers along the raised tissue.

With his eyes still closed, R quickly reached out to collect Morty's hand, pulling it away from the mark, and stitched their fingers together in silence. The teen, despite being drunk, read the unspoken tension in his gesture and began to apologize.

“S-Sor–”

_“–Shhhhh...No te preocupes, Rojito. Calma…”_

Morty’s heart was racing at the reality of being held so close by R, and he held onto the man as if he were an anchor, the one solid thing as his entire reality rocked unsteadily around him.

“You’re always so laid back about everything.”

“Mmm, you don’t know me kid. If I come off that way... It’s because all I do is get really fucking high and actively try not to care about anything– react to anything at all.”  

R unconsciously moved his hand from Morty’s back to his arm, and absently caressed a careful thumb over his bruised skin.

“...Is that why you didn’t ask about them?”

“Part of it, sure. But I don't ask because I already know. So, if _you_ don't want to talk about it, then it’s not really my business to ask.” R paused in thought before adding, “I hate that fucker every time I think of him, kid... but there’s some saying about glass cities and just getting stoned...”

R gave Morty permission to let everything out, and Morty wondered what would happen if he did. It seemed like the stoner had already suspected everything. Carefully, the teen spoke, expressing his emotions in a way that R might understand.

"Rick’s...afraid too. He usually…I don’t get angry anymore because I expect – But something’s changed, and I dunno. I think he feels like he’s losing control. Today was different. He scared me.”

Rick was becoming less predictable, and more violent. Morty couldn't remember feeling fear like that in a long while. He wasn’t sure what to do – what he could do. Quickly after sharing, he felt a wave of guilt submerge the redhead for speaking negatively of him.

“I think he just doesn’t think about it,” he corrected in defense of him.

 

_“I love you, too, Red. I just don’t want any other Rick putting his hands on you – going near you. Th-they don't– they don’t think about shit.”_

 

Morty echoed the words of his grandfather. He often thought of his grandfather when he was around the record store owner. R, however, hated Ricks so much that the redhead doubted he would ever share such a thought with him. If anything, R would have seen such a statement as insulting.

“I think you’re different than the other Ricks.”

R groaned at what had become Morty’s common insistent phrase to compliment him.

“Morty– To even make that kind of a statement… I _can't_ be different– by your very own system of measurement. Don’t put me on some moral high ground, kid. I’m just trying to exist within a set of choices that selfishly make me feel like _I'm_ more in control of what I don't like about my collective self. And when you look at it like that, we’re all a lot closer than you think.”

_“No, Red, I am just like these other Ricks – that's why I need you to do what I say on the Citadel. Because I know how they think. I know what they’re after.”_

 

“...You're in love with the Rick you wish he was, Morty, not who he is. You’re chasing the high – You can’t trust what you think you want.”

Morty frowned at R, but decided not to correct him. Morty realized, after R had challenged him, that he knew what he wanted, and more than that, he knew how fucked up he was for _knowing_ what he wanted. He was trying to find his grandfather in every Rick he fucked, and he knew that was what made him so broken. Why things never worked out, and why his world always seemed to stand still. Morty couldn’t move forward, and he had been able to change everything about himself but that fact.

Morty tensed, wanting to be angry with R, but his voice left his lips feeling exhausted and sad instead as he murmured to the man he held close to him.  

“You still don’t even know what _you_ want, R.”

“I _know_ what I want, kid. I'm trying to stop myself from wanting it, cause I’m chasing a high too.”

R echoed Morty's own similar thoughts into the honest void of Church, and Morty nestled his head against R’s chest to speak under his breath, using no more than a whisper.

“That makes two of us, then.”

 

 _Down the street you can hear her scream "You're a disgrace"_  
_As she slams the door in his drunken face_  
_And now he stands outside  
And all the neighbors start to gossip and drool_

 _He cries "Oh, girl, you must be mad_  
_What happened to the sweet love you and me had?"_  
_Against the door he leans and starts a scene  
And his tears fall and burn the garden green_

_And so castles made of sand fall in the sea eventually_

Perhaps R already understood how fucked up Morty was, and in the same way that he reacted to the teen’s bruises, R was choosing not to acknowledge it. R was smart enough to have seen through Morty by now, and maybe that was why he didn’t want him, even now, like this: crunk, half-naked, and sprawled across the older man’s body while wearing his favorite band shirt.

R didn’t want Morty. Not even to have his way with him.

“...Is it because I'm too fucked up?”

“–Kid. That’s the alcohol talking. Take a look in the mirror, at the– No. It's because _I'm_ too fucked up– and I know I sound like a fuckin' hypocrite from hell right now, but try not to wander off so far into your own red bean of a head that you can't breathe, yeah?"

“–It was my fault, too. What happened.”

R let out another heavy sigh. “Listen, that kind of response? That is exactly why I– sure it takes two, but jeezus, Morty, take a step back and listen to yourself.”

Morty gave R’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. This Rick couldn’t understand how much everything really was his fault. Maybe he _should_ tell him everything so that he could.  

“Can I...tell you about my Rick?”

R rubbed Morty’s arm in silence for a long moment as he considered his answer, before nodding into his hair. Morty took a deep breath before sharing the secret he held closest to his heart.

“It’s my fault he’s dead.”

R’s movements stilled in a way that refused to believe what Morty had just said, but it was the truth. He felt his eyes water as he pressed his face into R’s chest. R couldn't understand.

The older man patted Morty’s shoulder, motioning for him to sit upright. and when he did, R reached for the hem of the Pink Floyd shirt. With eyes still watering, Morty caught his hand in fear as his fingers wrapped around the fabric, shaking his head.

They held their shared gaze for a few tense seconds before Morty gently released his grip, allowing R to witness him. The redhead fisted the hem of the shirt, anxiously wringing the fabric, before lifting the material to his collarbone, looking away from R as he did so. He was unable to watch, or read the expressions on R’s face as the man saw him.  

Rick showed his love to Morty in his own way. Morty didn’t understand why he was so ashamed, now, of showing R how he expressed that love.

R held the boy with such a lonely, careful tenderness that Morty thought he would shed tears just from the way his fingers delicately touched the surface of his skin. He wrapped slow hands around Morty’s waist and dipped down to press a painful kiss against the center of the worst mark, an angry red flower with burning yellow edges across his ribs and chest. He held Morty for a silent stretch of time before speaking to him, in no more than a soft-spoken whisper.

“You deserve so much better than this, Morty.” R leaned forward and nuzzled his forehead into the curve of Morty’s neck, unable to look at him. “I can’t think of anyone else more deserving of something better than this – of being genuinely loved and taken care of.”  

R dipped down once more, moving his lips to an older fading bruise, and planted another kiss on its mottled saffron surface. Morty flinched at the tender, searing press, and R bowed his forehead, saturated with meaning, against him.  

“But those words aren’t gonna mean shit until you believe them for yourself.”

R slowly pulled away, looking at the teen with a serious expression.  

“It’s not going to get better, kid. It's the same old story. That Rick’s gonna end up killing you if you don’t get away from him.”

 

“ _There won’t be a next time, Red-shirt.”_

 

“...I know.”

Morty broke his gaze away from R, because he was almost too ashamed to correct him. R was telling Morty these things as if he didn’t know them. Rick had _already_ threatened to kill him during his drunken rage, not even hours ago.

Morty knew he didn’t deserve this. He knew it wasn’t getting better, but, like R, he was trying to stop himself from wanting to believe it would, despite. R reached out and brushed a thumb across his cheek, as if reading his thoughts.

 

“...I’m so sorry, Morty.”

 

R apologized to Morty for a perceived transgression. For overstepping his bounds. Or, maybe, he was apologizing because he couldn't be the one to save him. Perhaps he was even apologizing in place of his other self.

The statement caused Morty to quickly look at him in a panic. He’d never heard a Rick apologize for anything, not so directly, or laden with so much guilt and shame. Ricks never apologized. Never like that, and Morty couldn't help but correct him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

R held his gaze and remained silent, taking Morty’s fist, still tightly balled around the fabric, and, paying close attention, returned the red shirt back to its place. Gently, he wrapped his arm around Morty in a silent hug, and returned him into the soft embrace of his chest, unable to look at Morty as he formed a response.

“...I know.” He echoed Morty’s own words.

The tenderness in the gesture and the moment ignited something deep within him, and Morty burned with emotion, having forgotten how much he missed his grandfather. At R’s embrace, in the presence of Church, he felt safe enough to let himself yearn for the ethereal feeling.

“Do you ever get homesick?”

He wondered if R ever missed his dimension, if he ever had a Morty.

“I’m afraid of the days I think about home, kid. Terrified of the days I feel homesick.”

R seemed relieved to change the topic of conversation, but fell silent, continuing to run a hand along Morty’s back.

“Once, I heard that my dimensional letter…” R trailed and then began again. “Never met a Diane, never really had a– I wouldn’t know what homesick even feels like. The Citadel’s my home, now and forever, kid.”

Morty understood the grim sentiment.

“It was supposed to be our new home, but this place wasn’t good for Grandpa Rick.”

“He was stupid to drag you here with him,” R interjected unsympathetically, and Morty nodded in agreement.

"Coming here fucked everything up."

Morty wished he had said goodbye to his family before he and his grandfather had left. Rick had made very clear that he could never go home, never contact them again, but it was so much harder now that his grandfather was gone.

He suddenly felt the urge to ask R for his phone number, but he knew better than to put another Rick’s number in his phone. All of the Ricks reminded him of his grandfather in some way or another.

“I still love him,” Morty whispered a slurred voice into R’s chest, afraid and ashamed to even admit it to himself. But he knew. It was a truth as real as his existence on the Citadel. R’s movements stilled before he flexed his arm around the redhead in a reassuring hug.

“Emotions aren't black and white, kid. Take the colors that you can from it, that's all any of us can really ever do."

He felt his lip quiver against R’s chest, and nodded, burying his face further into it. Anchored by the weight of R’s arm, Morty found the older man’s hand once more. R leaned forward and kissed his forehead.  

“You wear that red-shirt like I wear my own self-hatred, kid.”

Morty felt safe enough to burn in R’s embrace. The older man said nothing about the redhead’s tears as he brought their elusive essence to life under a far-too-loving touch. Thick droplets of ignited emotions fell against his skin, and R held Morty as if his life depended on it.

It was how Morty needed to be held. R breathed softly against him, smoothing a hand against his back, and with soft-spoken words, sang of comfort.

 

 _Once there was a way, to get back homeward._  
_Once there was a way, to get back home._  
_Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry  
And I will sing a lullaby._

 _Golden slumbers, fill your eyes_  
_Smiles await you when you rise_  
_Sleep pretty darling, do not cry  
And I will sing a lullaby._

Morty was going to carry that weight for a long time.

High in the redhead’s presence, R drifted off into a peaceful slumber in Morty’s warm embrace. However, when he woke, it was in the cold clutches of a lonely, empty room. His favorite band shirt sat on the table, neatly folded for R to easily find.

R lifted it to his nose and breathed in Morty’s lingering scent before dressing himself with its weight. The threads lingering sweetly like a rope of self-doubt around his neck.

Morty was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Art from this chapter on Mastadon** [NaughtyOrganic](https://naughtyorganic.tumblr.com/) | Check out the Starry AU art gallery on Mastadon to see more art and drabbles related to this fic. 
> 
>  **R’s Scar** reflects the scar of our Rick in [ Afterlife. ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13164759/chapters/30109404) Because they share a dimensional letter, my headcanon is that this event is a deviation point or crossroads for similar timelines. Where Afterlife Rick chose to become a runaway from an abusive household, this Rick chose to remain, and while young Rick in afterlife openly shares information about his scar, R is uncomfortable with Morty even acknowledging it's existence. 
> 
> **Not To Touch The Earth:** The lyrics to this song is an excerpt from _The Celebration Of The Lizard,_ a Jim Morrison poem that was going to take up the first side of _Waiting For The Sun._ "Not To Touch The Earth" was the only part of the 24-minute song that was compelling enough to put on the album, but the entire 133-line poem was included on the album sleeve. (A complete performance of the poem can be heard on the 1970 album _Absolutely Live._ )
> 
>  **Spiritualism was a huge topic in the psychedelic 60’s and Jim Morrison, capitalized on it.** Morrison cribbed the title, and also the line "Not to see the sun," from _Aftermath: A Supplement to the Golden Bough,_ a supplement to the 1890 book _The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion._ Both works were written by the Scottish social anthropologist Sir James George Frazer. Morrison got the lines from the table of contents: Chapter LXV – Not to Touch the Earth, Chapter LXVI – Not to See the Sun
> 
>  **Disturbia (2007)** Rihanna’s abusive relationship with Chris Brown is subject matter that is often explored through her music, but this dance/pop track about being in a state of mental anguish was co-written by Chris Brown, who was her boyfriend at the time, and who also contributed the backing vocals. 
> 
> **Love Or Confusion & Jimi Hendrix (1967)** The lyrics show the battle between emotion and logic. Hendrix's mother was a drunk, who abandoned him 5 days after his birth to eventually be raised by his grandmother. Later in his life, after he found fame, he believed he was surrounded by superficial relationships. Many of his songs explore the meaning of love. He often shared the sentiment that his only family was his guitar. Hendrix's mother had cirrhosis of the liver that hemorrhaged, resulting in her death when he was 15. 
> 
> **Castles Made of Sand (1967)** is a song about bitter ironies and contradictions in life, it was written as a biographical story about Hendrix's childhood. It is nostalgic, using the metaphor of sand to describe the fleeing, transient nature of existence. 
> 
> **Golden Slumbers (1969)** took its words from a song by the playwright Thomas Dekker, which was couched in his 1603 play, Patient Grissel. This tells the story of a poor basket-weaving woman courted and married by a wealthy marquess, who then subjects her to punishing psychological trials. The lines “once there was a way to get back homeward/Once there was a way to get back home” do not appear: these were McCartney’s alone.
> 
>  **Carry That Weight (1969)** was designed to blend with _Golden Slumbers,_ and features unison vocals from all four Beatles (a rarity in their songs). This song segues to _The End,_ the final song of the last album they made together as a band: _Abbey Road._ The popular culture interpretation of the lyric was that McCarney was singing in acknowledgement of their end, while simultaneously acknowledging that nothing they would sing as a solo career would surpass what they had created together.


	9. Every Sunday's Getting More Bleak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do you get it? ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter does not have explicit content, so I did not include a recap, however, R is becoming increasingly erratic, and has a panic attack, so be sure to skim the General TW list below.
> 
>  **General TWs:** Mental Distress, Nervous Breakdown, Panic Attack, Anxiety

_You know the dealer, the dealer is a man_  
_With the love grass in his hand_  
_Oh but the pusher is a monster  
Good God, he's not a natural man_

 _The dealer for a nickel_  
_Lord, will sell you lots of sweet dreams_  
_Ah, but the pusher ruin your body_  
_Lord, he'll leave your, he'll leave your mind to scream_

 

After waking to find that the warm presence in his arms had fled with the artificial night, R held a pillow to his chest in lonely silence. The hopeful expectation of waking up to greet the boy with warm clover eyes doused with the bitter realism of daring to believe, for even a moment, that he might have been able to start his day in such an indulgent way. He reminded himself, with the chastising, bitter taste in his mouth, that he would only ever be able to enjoy Morty's presence as a passing moment.

He got dressed, wearing the shirt that smelled so much like the teen’s warm scent, and tried his best to ignore the insistent reminder that he would give most, if not all of his day to the broken pieces of last night’s break in routine.

The record store owner considered whether the previous night had been nothing more than a dream, and he willed himself to rise from it when his thoughts started to spin overwhelmingly around him. He needed to remain in Church for a little while longer, and calm himself down.

Resigned, R fell back down into his chair with the decision to _fuck it_ for the second day in a row, and choose to get excessively high using his dab rig instead of rubbing one out. He didn’t want to touch himself while thinking of the boy who was no longer here, nor entertain thoughts of why he might have left.

 

_You’re not enough_

 

Eventually, R rose from his beanbag and began to move, with his best efforts toward cautious optimism, through his daily routine, but was, nonetheless, clearly on-edge. An ever-present grating sensation was irritating his thoughts, hissing in the back of his mind, and building, slowly, despite the amount of smoke he attempted to suffocate them with. He ditched breakfast entirely with the intent to elevate his more necessary high, and pushed through the meandering currents of smoke to arrive at his storefront for the start of a new day. He made an effort to speak with his dealers, without a mug of coffee in his hand.

 

_Don’t think about it_

_Don’t think about it_

_Don’t think about it_

 

“–Hey R...You uh... You good?”

Rick and Silent Morty had been watching R pace circles from the curb to the sidewalk, erratically mumbling phrases to himself with increasing, sporadic irritation.  

“D-Don’t ask me that yet, cause I don’t know –You guys see Morty?”

“Nah man, you guys have a fight?”

“No, he just– he just took off without saying shit!”  

R exasperated with a panicked gesture, before catching his body language, and moved to cross his arms across his chest, rolling his eyes at the pretense of pity in their gaze. The explanation he had just given did make it sound like an argument was _exactly_ what happened. He sighed, not wanting to talk about it.

“Look, just give me some more concentrates.”

Rick gazed at R with an unsympathetic stare and let out a low whistle.

“Ah, no can do, R. After that one time, you _explicitly_ instructed us to cut you off from concentrates if you blew through your shit and started acting like this.”

“–No– This is different.”  

“–Yeah, uh, this is your storefront, so however you say it is, that’s how it is, R. But I think anyone can see that it’s pretty much the same. You locked yourself in the shop yesterday.”

Rick folded his arms and narrowed his eyes at R, whose jaw tightened. He grit his teeth in continued irritation. He didn’t have the time or patience to deal with their shit this morning.

“Argh! Why can’t you guys just sell to me without getting into my shit and riding my ass – You know, like actual dealers?”

“Who do you think we are? _The pusher man_ , leavin’ your body and mind to scream?”

“Save it for someone who’s buying your shit today–”

“–T-that's how you wanna deal, R? Fine. It’s in our best interests to keep our fattest cash cow alive, and his storefront open for business. This is our spot too. We don’t wanna see it change either.”

R growled at his dealers, scrubbing fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to ball them into a taut fist his and pull at the blue strands. He didn’t want to let Rick and Silent Morty further in on his state of mind this morning, and panicked desperation was never a good look for anyone trying to buy drugs.

“Look, just– I need some sun rocks.”

“–Bit of a loophole–”

“–It’s gonna be extract-dipped nugs or my flask of 322, so get off my dick, Ray–”

“–Ay R, watch it.” Rick poked a hard finger into R's chest, pushing his weight backwards. “Only one who gets to use that name and it ain't you.”

Rick growled at R, before looking to Silent Morty for a long moment. His partner nodded and silently opened his backpack. Rick, not fully in agreement with his partners silent decision, snatched the plastic container from his hands before extending it to R. As the record store owner reached for it, Rick pulled it away with a frown, narrowing his eyes toward R, his silent expression thick with warning.  

“Shit, dawg. All we have is an eighth, so make it last.”

With an even tone, Rick reached out again and dropped the score into R’s hand. Content with the small victory, despite the obvious lie, R took the plastic packaging cube, and pushed his way through the door of his record store, preparing to keep himself heavily self-medicated for a few more days.

 

_Don’t think about it_

 

R was fully aware of the irrationality, however, he woke up feeling like Morty wasn’t going to ever come back. And, worse than his second day of a broken schedule, R was immersed in a past that he had actively spent a lifetime, and then some, trying to forget. There was no point in reminiscing over things that were out of his power to change. Eventually, everyone left, and R couldn’t change that.

 

"The lunatic is on the grass...Just marvelous."

Mary Jane and music had always made R feel less alone. They held his mind in a hypnotic, soothing embrace, until he felt as if everything would be okay, reminding him, when his own mother no longer could, that it had always been okay. They were the unchanging constants that had given the stoner’s life stability, and for that reason, had become the only things that R had truly ever believed in, and dared to hold onto. R had given the substances of sweet dreams his trust, and unfaltering devotion.  

He prepared to worship, setting his playlist for the day, and loading his sneak-a-toke with the best of intentions to pace himself.

Rick and Silent Morty wouldn’t sell him anything more today.

 

**4:00 - Unscheduled**

 

Morty had returned, just before Church, and R was simultaneously overwhelmed with a concerning amount of relief, and irrationally angry at the redhead for returning. He busied himself talking about pop culture, while acting out a bullshit scene of _too busy productively working in the record store to grow a pair and look him in the eyes_.

For the most part, R considered his extensive knowledge of music and popular culture entirely self-indulgent. Overall, it was a pointless passion when it came to any sort of practical application, especially on the interdimensional scale, but today, while the record store owner was actively trying to avoid talking to Morty about the thoughts weighing heavily on his mind, R welcomed the distraction.  

“The psychedelic movement was really just a group of friends who played music with each other. Harrison wrote _Here Comes the Sun_ on Clapton's guitar – in his garden while ditching from Abbey Road– not the album, well– the place on the album… It was where Pink Floyd also recorded. Anyways, all these artists had roots in blues and they let it influence their psychedelic styles. Pink Floyd even got their name from two of Syd's favorite blues bands– and they toured with Hendrix in ‘68, whose first gig, by the way – before he formed The Experience, was in London, at an impromptu jam sesh with Clapton; a blues song they all grew up on – _[Crossroads](https://open.spotify.com/track/1sxtxIKhRiQwuGpUwHoEHq?si=lOMxPwd1Sd2_X2upig2eGw). _ Cream’s cover of the [Robert Johnson song](https://open.spotify.com/track/1TrGdXSgiBm8W68D2K1COG?si=dAedwUhQToWCpCl7neuGLQ)...”

Morty similarly seemed more distant than he usually was around R, and leaned against a record shelf, aimlessly flipping through album sleeves as he watched R work, passively listening to his unending stream of music lecture. It was possible that he was still feeling the effects of the alcohol from the previous night, but his soft smile, which always seemed effortless for the redhead, now seemed pained, and had lost its aura of warm light. The teen glanced up to look at R, who quickly looked away, avoiding eye contact.  

“Who was he?” Morty interrupted to ask, after R’s ensuing pause signaled to the teen an air of subjective importance. R frowned to himself for the hint, before offering an answer, still not daring to make eye contact with the redhead.

“ _Johnson_ was the inductive member of the 27 club... Said he sold his soul at the crossroads of his life for talent. Sang about hellhounds chasing him since.”

“Aw Jeez, R. You think he did?”

R thought of his own arrival at the Citadel, before making an attempt to look Morty in the eyes. At the slightest brush of vulnerability within their shared gaze, R felt his heart sink and his chest race into a panic at how exposed those clover eyes made him feel.

Just looking at them tugged at R’s stream of irrational thoughts, encouraging him to honestly share with Morty what was on his mind. Instead, he continued to distract himself with sorting through a fresh pile of records.

 

_You won't get it_

 

The memory of falling asleep next to Morty, only to wake up to his absence, was still too raw in his thoughts. He couldn't explain something so trivial to Morty, and it wasn’t the teen’s irrational bag of shit to deal with. It was R’s.

 

_I thought you weren't going to come back_

 

“I think he was like Syd, Hendrix, Jimi, Jones, Joplin, Morrison, and Cobain...”

He swallowed, hard, and glanced toward his pipe on the counter, willing himself to continue to hold out until Church. R had allowed himself to get too emotionally close to Morty, but he couldn’t explain why that was such a bad thing to the teen without encouraging the two of them to become even closer. R’s chest burned at the thought, and he grew angry at himself for allowing him to feel something like hope because Morty had come back.     

 

_Please, don’t ever leave me like that again_

 

“...They probably figured it out at the crossroads before most of us, and the only thing they could do was sing their swan song before joining the great gig in the sky.”  

“Figured out what?”

Cautiously, R’s eyes flicked to Morty as he gripped a record too tightly in his hands. He caught a hint of clover eyes that were as warm as honey, and pushed down the emotions that rose obligingly, attempting to claw their way out of him. Instead, R’s throat tightened and he caught the lump in his throat. He withdrew further, defensively angling his entire body away from Morty, who had come back to the record store. R knew better than to allow himself something like hope. It would only hurt more when Morty inevitably did stop coming back. Eventually, everyone left.  

 

_I want you to stay_

 

“They figured out that the hellhound is you... and you’re only chasing rabbits.”

Morty watched him in silence for a moment before carefully wording his next question. R observed the way the redhead responded to him and hated how well the teen was able to read and adjust himself to the precarious atmosphere that R had created.

“Wait, R, that list. Didn’t Syd live past 27?”

“Yeah– If you can call that living. Pushed over the edge at 27, he’s an honorary member.”

“You promised to tell me more about him.”

The record store owner sighed. Normally, R avoided talking about a subject like Syd Barrett– the patron saint of madness. But he thought it might allow him to talk around what was truly on his mind. He continued to avoid looking at Morty while he shelved a few records, offering a distant, casual shrug.

 

_I’m not enough_

 

“There’s not much to tell. He did a shit-ton of psychedelic drugs to cope with mental illness, and when they signed with the record label, it was too much– you'd be surprised at how common that story is in the music industry. In interviews, Roger talks about the one weekend in particular where Syd disappeared for a bender – and when he came back he said it was like he had flipped a switch off in his mind. All he could remember was Syd staring into him with completely dead eyes. Roger claimed his best friend was a different person from then on.’"

R related the story, tossing a record into the box at his feet. Morty stopped picking through the records to give more of his attention to R, invested in the story.

“So wait? It was the drugs that pushed him over the edge, and _not_ insanity?”

“Bit of a chicken and egg scenario, kid. Little bit of both if you ask me. He couldn't play in the band after that. His final studio session with them– He was trying to teach them a new song called _Do You Get it Yet?_ And every time he would play it through, he’d sing those words and slightly change the riffs. So his band mates could never learn his last song... That was his last moment of genius, kid– Told them all they’d _never get it._ They were trying to chase his irrational rabbits.”

R paused to walk over to his storefront window, plucking a record from the display and running a hand over it, pressing a pair of fingers into the hollow of the triangle.

“They all left him in the dark side, kid. But he knew they would, so he pushed himself over the edge first so they wouldn't have to.”

 

_Don’t think about it._

 

“But there...there is no dark side of the moon. That was the whole point– wasn't it?”

R gave another shrug. “Hell is other Ricks, regardless of whether they find you in dreams or reality. Syd's dark side was in himself, and Roger's dark side was in Syd.”

“Yeah, what about Roger? He didn’t leave Syd, right?”

R’s head instinctually turned to look at Morty before he stopped himself in the middle of the action. Roger Waters– the patron saint of friendship, often reminded R of the hotheaded redhead. R frowned at the reminder. Syd had broken something deep within Roger for the rest of his life.  

“– _Especially_ Roger, kid. Y’know– Syd was actually a fake name, both their names were Roger...What happened to Syd hit Roger hardest– it’s why we even have _Dark Side of The Moon._ But whether he wanted to or not, Morty, Roger left him all the same.”

“You said, Syd was never on Dark Side.”

“No, Syd _was_ the Dark Side of the Moon. That album exists _because_ of Syd. Wanna know how I know? A while back, I paid a shit-ton of money for an interdimensional bootleg from a reality where Syd stayed on with the band...”

R made his way upstairs into his bedroom, and pulled an album sleeve from the wall, bringing it back to the space he was working in. He handed it to Morty without glancing his way, and the teen carefully lifted it out of his hands to more closely examine it.

The art looked like Dark Side of the Moon, but it was white. Where the ray of light had passed through the prism, a ray of darkness passed through the triangle of glass, transforming into the same iconic rainbow.

“I call it Pink Floyd’s white album.” R gave a brief bitter chuckle before continuing. “Most dimensions, where Syd was mentally together, the album never existed and the band died with the psychedelic scene, or Pink Floyd never even got around to the point of existing. His mental illness and eccentricity was the bedrock of the band’s fame and fortune. Don’t fool yourself, cause they all profited off of his increasingly unstable mind, and no one understood that more than Roger… Anyways, when I listened to this album for the first time, I thought I got scammed, cause it was basically the same.”

“Wait, so what does that mean?”

“It means that Roger knew his bandmate _so well_ that he could still collaborate with him even when his friend wasn't– That's how close they were. But Roger fuckin’– he watched Syd burn.”

“But, what could Roger have done?”

“–He couldn't have done shit, Morty, that’s what I’m trying to tell you! That's _why_ Syd pushed himself over the edge, and while that road to hell was paved with good intentions, it _fucked_ Roger up for the rest of his life.”

R withheld the remainder of his thoughts about Roger’s friendship. He didn’t want to encourage Morty with the rest of his story. The real takeaway from the interdimensional bootleg was that Syd, and his Madness wasn’t in fact, all that special. It wasn’t the mind of the troubled genius that led him to fame. It was that Roger, his best friend and only disciple, had been the lone follower who had transformed his madness into a lasting legacy. He made Syd accessible to the mainstream.   

The one constant across the dimensions was their connection to each other. In his own dimension, whether Roger had known Syd so well that he could be him, or whether Syd’s ghost had pulled him into the orbit of the moon– the darkness of his own madness, was a question that R would never be able to answer.

Considering the production of the interdimensional white album, R had no doubts that although Syd was present, it was Roger who had carried the album though to completion, which was why, seemingly, the biggest difference was a reversal of color in the album art. The reflective choice made sense to R, and the subtle change was why he ultimately believed in the bootleg’s authenticity. Syd had always been on the other side of the looking glass.

Like Morty, R believed that Roger had no idea what he was getting into when he stepped into Syd’s life. The teen offered his thoughts to the conversation, because R had fallen into his silent thoughts.   

“ _Dark Side of The Moon_ was a tribute...or a biography for his lost friend, then.”

“[ _The Wall_](https://open.spotify.com/album/5Dbax7G8SWrP9xyzkOvy2F?si=jJf5qg_ySuOLbqw5WCp4jg) was Roger's dark side. [_Dark Side of The Moon_](https://open.spotify.com/album/4LH4d3cOWNNsVw41Gqt2kv?si=NTSy4t72Sv6T9sL4O-Y55Q) was Syd’s, and Roger was his mouthpiece for that entire album _._ [_Wish You Were Here_](https://open.spotify.com/track/6mFkJmJqdDVQ1REhVfGgd1?si=wqFVG8W1RAqCFftMmB48pA) was the tribute album – but look, I-I’ve gotta lot of work today, kid. I don’t have time to sit and chat about the Beatles or whatever.”

R attempted to change the subject that had started hitting nerves that were still too exposed for him, and Morty eagerly interrupted, seizing the opportunity.

“I uh, actually– Wanted to uh, to tell you something important, R.”

R froze, then nervously continued to organize and reorganize the same shelf of records, attempting to ignore Morty’s sudden weighted statement. The record store owner suspected that the redhead had been patiently waiting to bring these words up from the second he had left the store in the morning.

 

_I don’t want you to say goodbye_

 

R waffled, fighting against the changing topic of discussion, and continued to relate the importance of Syd’s White Album to Morty. He needed the teen to understand.  

“...In the dimension where Syd stayed on the band, it meant that he understood his mental illness so fully that he could actually do something with it, when in most realities that awareness – it destroyed him...In most dimensions, he didn't even stand a chance. You wanna know why the Citadel exists kid? Cause it's our own version of a 27 club. Ricks have the same interdimensional odds.”

Morty seemingly ignored R’s statement, and continued his own line of conversation, determined to share his thoughts with R.

“I-I’m going to break up with– I’m gonna leave Rick.”

R’s motion stilled at hearing Morty’s words, thankful he had not been facing him. He played with the toothpick in his mouth, pressing his tongue against the sharp point to ground himself, unsure of how to respond. The boy’s announcement stirred to life the intoxicating rush of hope laced with desirous possibility, and for a moment he entertained the thought of approaching him, kissing him, then asking Morty to be his, forever, right then.

However, following the crash of his infatuation, R had been gifted a revelating moment of sobriety, where, after having sank to rock bottom of his depressing reality just long enough to remember what it felt like, he had returned, clear enough in the head to have that immediately-following sense of never wanting to use again. He didn’t want to set himself up for failure, when his heart had already been aching more than he could stand.

“Good.”

R reached into a box on the floor and began pulling records to add to the shelf in front of him. He nervously turned, regretting the too-short answer, and anxiously scrubbed fingers through his blue hair. His eyes flicked once more to his pipe on the countertop. Morty followed his gaze, suspicious of his abnormal behaviour. Their eyes caught for a brief second.

“Listen, uh, Morty...” He paused finding the right words as Morty looked at him, pulling the honest thoughts out of him like a thread of barbed wire. “I probably shouldn’t be your go-to for emotional advice and support on this. Especially on a day like today. Ricks tend to deal with our emotional shit with a daily game of Russian roulette using our drug of choice – a-and that’s on the days we choose to acknowledge our emotions even exist.”

“But yesterday, you–”

“–Yesterday, I just wanted to luxuriate in my own shit and feel sorry about myself, and I got wa~y too fuckin’ comfortable in that headspace.”

R sighed, and added, “a-and before you get it in your head…just because I’ve analyzed my shit to a fuckin’ fault, doesn’t make the way I _don’t_ deal with it any better. You kids always fuckin’ think, just because some self-aware asshole calls his own shit, he’s suddenly fuckin’ Bob Dylan or something.”

“So you don’t want to tell me what you think?”

“It doesn't matter what I think, kid!”

R walked to the front of the store to grab another box, and dropped it on the table with a heave, frowning at how Morty jumped at the emotion the record store owner had unknowingly infused into the gesture.

“...but if you still _want_ to know what I think about your Ricklationship, I’ll tell you.”

Morty moved to help pull the records out of the box with the intent to assist the record store owner in shelving them, and R swatted his hand away, maintaining a healthy bubble of isolation. Morty looked hurt at the physical rejection, before offering a quiet response.

“Yeah, sure, R. Tell me what you think.”

Defensively, R offered honesty to Morty in the form of thoughts that were not about himself, but about the person standing before him.  

“I think that love is one of hardest drugs, and the most addictive. I think your high is fading fast and, objectively speaking, Morty. I think you’re going through withdrawals – they fucking suck, and honestly, I think it’s gonna be easier for you to relapse and get high again before trying to quit cold turkey.”

“So, what if I wanna be with you, instead, R? What if I want you to help me quit?”

 

_ _

_You jump in front of my car when you_  
_You know all the time that_  
_Ninety miles an hour, girl, is the speed I drive_  
_You tell me it's alright, you don't mind a little pain_  
_You say you just want me to take you for a ride_

 _You're just like crosstown traffic_  
_So hard to get through to you_

His chest began to pump and clench like brakes breaks when he refused the emotions that followed the drum of his heart. He cursed and let out a heavy sigh. This was exactly the direction he was hoping this fucking conversation wasn’t going to lead. He actively forced the beating of his heart to slow when it dared to listen to Morty’s words for even a moment. He couldn’t allow himself to listen to them.

He attempted to remind them both of the sober reality they were sitting in.

“Look, even by Rick standards, I'm not really passing on the whole being a functional Rick right now, Morty. I’m–”

“I think I’m in lo–”

_Don't say it_

 

“–Jeezus, Morty! Holy shit!” R cut Morty off, terrified of what he was just about to say. He pinched the bridge of his nose and chewed his toothpick in half, before picking it out of his mouth and tossing it to the floor.  _What the fuck was this kid thinking!?_

R corrected himself. He _wasn’t_ thinking. He was substituting one drug for another, trying to chase the high, because it was easier than making a clean break, or weaning himself from the teat of that unforgiving beast. Short of jumping to the next Rick in line, R grimly believed Morty’s only other chance to get out of his shitstorm of a life was murder or suicide.

Chasing the high only prolonged the inevitable– a quick fix that would undoubtedly leave them both stranded in the faded afterglow of another broken crash. R selfishly couldn’t encourage this high. He wouldn't survive the inevitable comedown.

 

_I can’t keep doing this when I know I’m not enough._

“Look. Kid. _Love_ has nothing to do with this. With us. Detox and do some Morty soul searching! Taper off with some Simple Rick’s wafers – y-you’ve built up this image in your head of who you think I am, and what I can give you, and I’m not your Grandpa Rick, kid. I–”

“–I never said you were.”

Morty quickly interjected, then fell silent with an ashen expression that looked genuinely hurt by the statement, and all that R had implied within it. It was the crumpled look of someone having their own shit shoved in their face where it could no longer be ignored. The redhead gazed to the floor, and quietly began to rub his arms in a self-soothing gesture, and R fought his immediate desire to hold him and offer comfort.

R abandoned his unproductive work with the albums in favor of pacing in circles, and eventually couldn’t even do that. He sank onto the hardwood, and buried his head into his knees to take a series of deep controlled breaths, and glanced at the counter once more, before clenching his eyes shut.

The stoner had been trying with every ounce of strength to make his stash last today, but the reality was that he had been saving most of it, in the hope that Morty would come back, and that they could get high together in Church. It was pathetic, to acknowledge how painfully helpless the feelings of loneliness made him. R didn’t want to have these feelings toward someone who, one day, wouldn’t have them for him.

 

_Don't say it_

_Don't lie to me_

 

Morty spoke to him, more confused and more reserved than before.

“...Don’t you want to at least try?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Morty. I’m living a catch-22. I’m _just_ sane enough to know I’m _not_ _well_.”

“I don’t care about that, R. You’re… just you, and I think that’s _why_ I fell in–”

“–No! Fuckin’ –Goddammit Morty, stop! Stop trying to tell me that, because you _don’t get it_ . It doesn't change anything _whether_ you _care_ about my shit or not, because it’s _still shit_ – that I have to shovel, Morty!”

Morty fell silent at R’s outburst from the floor. His breathing grew shallow and R didn’t know how else he could explain it to him. His arms flailed with emotive gesture as he tried to, nonetheless.

“I-I’m saying, you want more from me than I'm willing to give you, Morty. I’m saying I had it figured out! I was well-adjusted and high-functioning and I’d figured out how to _live_ with my shit, and then _you_ came along and spread that shit over everything, and however _you feel_ about that, it isn’t going to change the fact of how much _shit_ it still is, and how much harder it is for me to handle when it hits the fan.”  

“I’m sorry, R. I just – I thought you wanted me, too.”

Morty bit his lip in uncertainty and wrapped a hand around the bend in his elbow. The record store owner continued to squat, pulling at chunks of his hair as he tried to calm himself down. Becoming aware of the sounds of his own ragged breath, R felt himself hyperventilating, unsure of when he began to, but he needed to make it through this conversation. He needed Morty to understand. It was unfair to Morty, for R to continue to hold onto him at arm's length like this.

“Fuck– Morty. That’s not the problem. I did want you...I _do_ want you, but when I’m chasing a high, my willpower is – it’s fuckin’ shit, Morty, and I need to own it. I need to stop – It's my fault for letting it get this far, but I can’t give you what you want, Morty, and if coming here is making things worse for you then–”

“–Don’t!” Morty interrupted with a clear panic in his voice before continuing. “Please don’t. Don’t ask me to stop coming to Church, R.”

R derailed his own argument as he watched the expressions spin across Morty’s face. He hated himself for being unable to follow through. He hated himself for wanting to let Morty further in.

He caved on holding off on smoking more weed. It was close enough to Church.

“Hand me my pipe, kid. I-It's on the counter. Tiny. Should be packed.”

Morty looked at him with a questioning gaze for a moment before retrieving the slim piece of glass. He handed it and a lighter to R, who took a quick, efficient hit, not taking the time to draw out a cherry. He blew the smoke onto the floor and watched it blanket out across the hardwood, deep in thought as the familiar burn wrapped around him like a comforting hug.

Regardless of whether or not he could understand it, Morty deserved R’s honesty. He set his piece down on the floor and returned his hands to his hair, tugging on the strands to give himself some added relief, growling out an even hum as he released his stress with the feeling of physical pain.  

“I don’t want you to stop coming back, kid. But that– that’s our entire problem. I’m a mistake. I’m not supposed _to be_ in your life, fucking it up like this, but I'm not strong enough to stop wanting to get high with you. _That’s_ the problem.”

Morty fell to his knees beside the record store owner, and gently wove his fingers through R’s, unraveling them from the strands of hair, softly speaking to the record store owner while he worked them free. The tension in R’s hands transferred to wrap around Morty’s fingers with enough strength that they cut off the teen’s circulation.  

“You're not fucking up my life, R! If anything– If anything, I'm fucking up yours! I mean, look at you. Everytime I come back, you’re getting worse, but I can’t stop myself either. I want to keep getting high with you, too.”

Morty pressed their foreheads together and stared at the floor of the record store.

“When we met… You said you were afraid, but you – you never told me why.”

Morty looked up and into R’s eyes with a lush glow, locking his gaze with the record store owner, stirring the clouds of hope and fear in R’s hazy blue hues.       

 

_Something bad is 'bout to happen to me_  
_I don't know what, but I feel it coming_  
_Might be so sad, might leave my nose running  
I just hope she don't wanna leave me_

 

“I fear the way you love, kid. I'm afraid you’ll give everything to me, and I won’t be strong enough to stop myself from taking it even after you have nothing left to give. That you won’t be strong enough to stop me from doing exactly that– cause if you _were_ , then you’d also be smart enough to leave before I could.”

R released his grip on Morty’s fingers to reach for his pipe with a frustrated sigh.

“The best thing you can do is get away from me, kid. I-I already woke up today thinking you'd gotten smart enough to.”

He re-lit the bowl with shaky hands, took a hit, then covered the mouth of the glass to slow the burn as he continued to explain.  

“You could handle that – I don’t know if I... I-I mean, _look_ at me, kid.” R looked away from Morty at hearing his voice begin to crack. “This isn’t– I’m a fucking mess because of– Because you took off without saying shit – my entire day is all fucked now, and I'm getting off on Sun Rocks to just slow things down enough so that the fucking crash won’t kill me. But the traffic lights are all blue, and it's only a matter of time anyways, kid, and–”

R started hyperventilating again, coughing as a burning sensation bloomed across his chest, and his pulse began to race. Without warning, he broke into a cold sweat and and gripped the fabric over his chest as he began to lose control of his body. It left him unable to breathe, and despite his shaky hands, he moved to light another hit of the small bowl, desperately inhaling the shallow breath of smoke he could take, and felt a hand rest on his back.

“–Aw jeez, R, it's okay.”

“– No, Morty. It's not! It’s not okay. Nothing is okay.”

 

 _What if she's fine_  
_It's my mind that's wrong_  
_And I just let bad thoughts_  
_Linger for far too long_

If R turned into the kind of Rick who would use Morty as a way to control his fear, it would affirm everything he ever hated about himself.

“I'm afraid of _becoming_ – and I’m afraid I missed my only chance to stop it when I came to the Citadel.”

“I still don’t get it, R. But your fear sounds so much worse than whatever it is you’re afraid of.”

Morty smoothed a hand across R’s back as he worked to calm himself down, and R released another shaky breath against Morty's touch.

“I know. I know how irrational my shit is, Morty. I know.”

Morty traced the fingers of his free hand across the lines of hardwood, listening quietly. R knew there was nothing to say. There were no easy answers for this.

“So, where do we go from here?”

“I told you, Morty, I'm only smart enough to have problems, I'm not smart enough to fix them.”

R fiercely gripped his glass piece as he traced the bowl’s stem with his thumb, trying to hold off on another hit.

“All I ever wanted to do was get high and go to Church with you for _one fucking second_.”

“Then let’s just do that. Let's start from there.”

Morty lifted R's hand and tugged it in the direction of the back of the store. R rose to his feet, and anchored his weight in resistance, before giving in and following him into the small room.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **“Only smart enough to have problems, not smart enough to fix them.”** Is a nod to “It’s Kind of a Funny Story” It's Kind of a Funny Story is a 2006 novel by American author Ned Vizzini. The book was inspired by Vizzini's own brief hospitalization for depression in November 2004. Ned Vizzini later committed suicide in 2013. 
> 
> **R says he’s living a Catch 22:** “I’m just sane enough to know I’m not well.” This is a reference to the 1961 novel by Joseph Heller. Catch-22 is a military rule typifying bureaucratic operation and reasoning. The rule is that if one is crazy, one does not have to fly missions, and one must be crazy to fly. But one has to apply to be excused, and applying demonstrates that one is not crazy. As a result, one must continue flying, regardless. One of the characters, Orr, fakes his death to escape war. Catch-22 became very popular among teenagers at the time, embodying the feelings that young people had toward the Vietnam War.
> 
> R relates his life on the Citadel, and his resulting mental health, as a similar paradox. 
> 
> **R is in a Prisoner’s Dilemma Towards His Infinite Selves on the Citadel:** R believes that the most logical course of action for a Rick on the Citadel is to always assume bad faith in every other Rick, and benefit themselves at the others’ expense. Mortys present a wildcard in this Prisoners’ Dilemma scenario; R is unable to treat him in the same manner as a Rick, however, he can’t help but observe the effect other Ricks have had on Morty.
> 
>  **The Pusher (1968):** The lyrics of the song distinguish between a dealer in drugs such as marijuana – who "will sell you lots of sweet dreams" – and a pusher of hard drugs such as heroin—a "monster" who doesn't care "if you live or if you die". Along with Steppenwolf's Born To Be Wild, this was featured in the 1969 movie _Easy Rider,_ starring Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper. The film is considered a landmark of '60s counterculture, and using this song in the movie was important because it portrayed the downside of doing drugs.
> 
>  **House of The Rising Sun (1964):** Traditionally an African-American Folk song, The folk music historian Alan Lomax recorded a version in 1937 by a 16-year-old girl named Georgia Turner. In this traditional folk version, the main character is either a prostitute or a prisoner. The song is about a brothel in New Orleans. _The House Of The Rising Sun_ was named after Madame Marianne LeSoleil Levant (which means "Rising Sun" in French) and was open for business from 1862 (occupation by Union troops) until 1874, when it was closed due to complaints by neighbors. The Animals changed it to a gambler to make their version more radio-friendly.
> 
>  **Crossroads/Cross Road Blues (1968):** Cream's version is a compilation of parts of two Johnson songs: _Crossroads Blues_ and _Traveling Riverside Blues._ This was originally recorded by the blues musician Robert Johnson in the 1930s. According to legend, Johnson went to the crossroads and made a deal with the devil, giving up his soul in exchange for the ability to play the blues. The story originates from an interview with the blues singer Son House, who explained how Johnson went from being a terrible guitar player to a very good one in a very short period of time. Over the years, the story grew into the tale of Johnson selling his soul to the devil.
> 
>  **Hellhounds and The 27 Club:** Johnson fueled the legend on his track _Me And The Devil Blues,_ where he sings about his meeting with Satan himself. In that song, Johnson explains that as part of his deal with the devil, the prince of darkness would harvest all of Robert's "Childrens" at the age of 27, which is exactly how old Robert was when he died in 1938. A spooky correlation is the number of music stars who have died at age 27. 
> 
> **Dark Red (2016):** This song is from “Steve Lacy’s Demo” music created by using only his iPhone and Apple’s Garageband. He was trying to evoke Prince’s style in this song. 
> 
> **Crosstown Traffic (1968):** The lyrics are similar to many Blues songs in that they are filled with sexual references in clever metaphors: "I'm not the only soul, who's accused of hit and run, tire tracks all across your back, I can see you've had your fun."


	10. I'll Tell You My Sins and You Can Sharpen Your Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It's the Citadel of Ricks. All the different Ricks from all the different realities got together to hide here from the government."_  
>  _"But if every Rick hates the government, why would they hate grandpa?"_  
>  _"Because Ricks hate themselves the most."_  
>  -S3E1 The Rickshank Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** This chapter is also pretty mellow, but on the tail end there’s a scene that I’m gonna warn for in the General TW’s; while the actions aren’t very explicit the thought processes are. 
> 
> General TW’s: Moment of mostly passive suicide ideation, Non consensual touching, Attempt to initiate non consensual sex

_Oh my my my_  
_I'm feeling high_  
_My money’s gone_  
_I'm all alone_  
_The world is turnin'_  
_Oh what a day  
What a day what a day_

“You seem well enough to come in for the last few hours of your shift, so why the fuck did your Rick call in for you.”

Manager Rick looked irritated with Morty as he inventoried the products in the mini mart. If he were being honest with himself, Morty still felt like shit, like he really did have the flu. His body ached, and he’d been on and off nauseous – extra sensitive to smells and light, and he’d been dealing with black-shit diarrhea since he woke.

“Sorry. I accidentally got drunk and–”

“–You _accidentally_ got drunk?”

His manager cocked a suspicious eyebrow at him. They both knew it was a lie but Morty knew his manager wouldn't challenge him on the excuse. The redhead avoided his gaze and continued to count the cans of SPAM on the shelf, keying the number into the inventory list on the work tablet.

He’d arrived at work with a few hours of his shift to spare, and his Manager had called him one of his _best and worst employees,_ complementing Morty for being one of the hardest working Mortys he’d known, before chiding him for not calling in the night before and pulling _amateur hour shit._

“–Yeah, but… I can’t lose anymore hours.”

“Morty, your Rick needs to support his own addictions–” Rick sighed and leaned his weight onto an elbow on the shelf as he watched Morty do his job.

“He’s not my–”

“–Yeah, yeah, he’s not your Rick. He’s your problem is what he is.” Rick dismissed Morty and stared down at him, before letting out a groan as if he had, just then, decided to let Morty take his hours, even though they both knew he’d been planning to let Morty take them from the moment he showed up to clock in. Although the manager’s position existed to cover shifts as needed, he hadn't been exactly thrilled to pull a double.

“Well, if you don’t mind staying up late into the day, I’ll let you finish inventory _and_ work the register – should give you back at least half a shift.”

Before Morty could respond to offer a thanks, Manger Rick walked over to the register, ringing up a bottle of electrolyte water on his co-worker’s tab, and cracked the seal before the teen could protest, tossing it to him with a smug grin.   

“Next time, I’d recommend the ol’ hair of the dog. Classic. Gotta start your morning-after with a chaser and something nice…and…greasy.”

Morty’s stomach stirred at the images of food and alcohol Manager Rick had called to mind, and his co-worker chuckled, watching the teen’s face visibly pale.

“Heheh, it only delays what’s eventually gonna come, Mort, but it’ll buy you some time to rehydrate. Is it healthy? Fuck no. Effective? _Abso-fucking-lutely_.”

Morty held a hand to his stomach and dry retched, before reaching for the electrolyte water to take a large gulp.

“I don’t wanna drink ever again.”

“Ooof, been a lo~ng while since I woke up with those words coming out of my mouth. Sounds like a real bitch of a hangover. How much did you put in your system?” His manager punched a series of buttons into the register while continuing to converse with Morty, changing out the register’s user and preparing to clock out.

“Uh…I-I’m not sure.”  

Manager Rick made a point to pause his actions, look at Morty with a deadpan scolding frown, and cock an eyebrow, before resuming.

“Yeesh, Morty, you sound like the type who doesn't know how to drink– Disappears halfway through the night on an adventure. Remind me on a slow day to call a little Morty happy hour. We can spike some orange kool-aid with Patron on the clock, ‘n’ I can teach you how to end the day enjoying a mellow buzz– Not charge into the night with the goal of blacking out as fast as possible.”

“Is that even possible?”

“If you’re asking if a _Morty_ can drink responsibly? Sure, but when you _can't_ …you kids just tend to be the angry, emotional drunks… I-I'm really just being a good samaritan– promoting the general welfare of the Citadel by offering an impromptu class about alcohol ed. First lesson? Alcohol isn’t the thing you need to worry about, the addiction is – A-and I don't want you bailing on anymore shifts because some fuckin drunk–”

The supervising Rick was about to comment on something else, but caught himself, and instead, rapped his knuckles on the laminate countertop in silent thought before abandoning the conversation entirety to make his way to the back of the store.

He tossed his name tag up on the magnetic board and hooked his apron in its place, before returning to the front with his windbreaker slung through his arm, and a drawstring backpack hooked over his shoulders– both overpriced items, long since purchased ten feet away at the small freestanding Citadel novelty rack. All Morty Marts in the chain of franchises carried them, regardless how far from any tourists the business was located.

Covered in Citadel propaganda, his supervisor smirked at the teen, moving to step through the exit, but hesitated again, deciding to turn back toward his co-worker to share what had been on his mind after all.

“–Yeah, one more thing, _Not-your-Rick_ called, then _accidentally_ made an appearance trying to find you last night. Said some pretty _Rick-splicit_ things to me –pretty sure I was hiding you in the back, and I let him keep thinking that… You deserve a night off every once in a while.”

Morty froze at the mention of Labcoat Rick showing up visibly drunk at his workplace again, and grimaced as he anxiously lowered his gaze to the laminate floor. His supervisor had already taken him to the back office to warn him that if Rick continued to show up and harass customers while Morty was working, it would be his job on the line.

Fearfully, the redhead glanced back upwards to find his supervisor unexpectedly staring at him with a smirk, and, following Morty's confused questioning gaze, it threatened to break into a wide grin at any moment. He’d been expecting his supervisor to be angry, or upset with him, but the knowing expression seemed proud, almost congratulatory as he continued to tease his employee.

“But I’m guessing _he_ wasn’t the Rick you were with last night…”

Morty rose from the floor to protest, his face washing over in a fierce blush as he began to sputter out an explanation. Rick held up a hand, not needing or wanting one

“–Look. I’d be a hypocrite if I judged you for wanting to get fucked by a jealous Rick, cause there's just _something_ about it,” he interrupted, before changing his thoughts. “I-I don’t wanna get involved in your ongoing _tales of being the public Citadel transit system_ , but because I’m your manager, it’s my job to give you advice that’s in the best interests of the Morty Mart.”

Morty stared at Rick over the large jars of pickled alien eggs, bags of candy, and rows of potato chips, unsure of what to say. His manager never liked to involve himself in the lives of his co-workers, making a point to– when he wasn’t fucking someone in the back room– very clearly separate his personal and work lives. Often, however, he lamented that his non-existent job description involved keeping his workers _employable within reasonable margins for error,_ using his position of power to give unsolicited life advice to the Mortys under his supervision.

“So, speaking _as your Manager_ , if you've climbed onboard _that_ ride, take that baby for a spin. But it's gonna throw you – there's no other way off. And when it does…” the older man crooked his eyebrow in stern paternalistic warning. “Don’t let it follow you _here_ , cause if I have to do my job– trust me on this one, Morty, you don’t want _me_ to be the Rick that cleans up your shit.”

Manager Rick offered a gentle smile to Morty, but his eyes were serious and still, leaving the teen feeling both scolded and supported. His supervisor dropped his gaze with the conversation again, before turning back towards the exit.

“Whelp, I’m off the clock.” He tossed a set of keys, sporting a novelty keychain in the likeness of the Citadel, to Morty, who clipped the retractable keyring to his apron.

“Enjoy that hangover working the day shift– Not that bad if you don’t mind the customers.”

“T-thanks again for letting me take your sh–”

“–You’ve got the number to my pager. Give me a beep if anything major happens… this caboose is off to find a train station. Later, you little slut.”

Morty watched his boss swagger out of sight before deciding to inventory the cold items next, and made his way to the wall of refrigerated items, pressing his forehead against the cold glass with a sigh of relief. He allowed the weight of his eyelids to fall to a close for a moment, thankful for the small pocket of cold air, and the flickering fluorescent blue lights that advertised the drop in temperature. It felt amazing against his skin. The machine wall hummed steadily as he popped open the door with a sticky part, and continued counting product.

He always preferred handling alcohol in the Morty Mart. Everything was bottled and there was never any kind of fermented smell to deal with. The thought made his stomach queasy all over again, and his thoughts drifted to R as he considered his supervisor’s words. Passively, he wondered what R had said to his boss over the phone the night before.  

Despite what his Manager had thought, however, and despite whatever R had told him, nothing had happened with the record store owner last night.

He paused to turn up the volume of the store’s playlist, pressing fingers into the screen, and wondered how common they were for businesses on the Citadel– R’s record store tablet was practically the same. He decided on listening to the song Manager Rick had introduced him to, that the redhead had listened to on repeat for a few days, and with a deep sigh, gathered his thoughts, and began work again, counting the rows of chilled Triple X bottles as the music floated through the aisles of the mini mart.

 

 

 _I know this. This I know._  
_All that I have, all that is me, resides inside my poetry._  
_Every time I write a rhyme it might be the line that sets minds free.  
And also I know that – I don't know shit._

 _And the more I know, the more I realize it._  
_I know that for all of the pain I've cried_  
_There's the exact same balance of joy on the other side of that coin,  
Joined with the thinnest slip of membrane._

  
_Same goes for crazy and sane, truth and lie, answer and why,  
Because I know this_

 

_***_

 

A stream of questions filtered through Morty's mind as he came into consciousness, his eyes still closed, and felt the warm press of a body next to his own. Still half-awake, he snuggled into it, enjoying the thought of how right such a presence wrapped around him felt.

Unsure of where he was, however, he groggily began to stir, and half-heartedly wondered if he was wearing any pants. As the question fully formed in his consciousness, his eyes shot open in a panic, and he took in his surroundings.

The boy found himself inches from R’s sleeping face, and gasped, catching his breath. Still nestled in the older man’s serene embrace, he remembered that he’d fallen asleep to the record store owner’s voice softly singing Beatles songs to him, and warmly smiled to himself at the rememberance. His nerves settled back into a calm, and Morty hoped he would get the chance to hear his voice again.

He’d been surprised to hear it, and found himself emotional at the thought of R even wanting to share it with him. All Ricks had the ability to sing, however, most had stopped entirely, and Morty had never been sure why.

Carefully, he willed himself to untangle his body from the man’s limbs, noting, with a dry swallow, the hard bulge of R’s morning wood as it pressed against his pantless thigh.

The teen blushed at the discovery, tensing up against the man. He might have woken up similarly aroused, if it weren’t for the splitting headache, and overall feeling like death that settled over him the moment he began to stir.

Slowly, he pulled himself out of the bean bag and, still careful not to disturb the record store owner, glanced around for the usual glass of water on the coffee table, his mind still frustratingly foggy. The sip of water did little to combat the dry feeling in his throat and mouth, and only heightened the taste of absolute shit in his mouth. He turned his head to gaze around the sacred space, looking around for the time, before reminding himself that R didn’t have a single clock in his store, let alone Church.

Pain spiked across his body as he rose to his feet, and his limbs felt exhausted and heavy as he fumbled around the darkened room with shaky hands, looking for his messenger bag containing his phone. With every small motion and stretch of his muscles his bruises ached, no longer being numbed by the previous night's adrenaline. His head pounded and Morty gave a slight groan, thankful that weed never gave him hangovers like this.

He quietly slipped into the store’s only restroom to find some aspirin, wondering when the record store recluse did his shopping for such essential items, and also found his red shirt and pants hooked over the shower nozzle on some metal hangers. He cringed at the sudden remembrance of puking all over himself.

Something about seeing Morty drunk the previous night had catalyzed R to life, immediately setting him on the course of caretaking for the teen. The older man had taken the time to wash the acrid filth using his own hands – because Morty had drunkenly asked him to take care of his shirt – then he’d returned, knowing exactly what items Morty would need, as if the act of taking care of a drunk were already second nature to him. Morty, himself, had often taken care of his own Ricks in such a way, and the teen curiously wondered who R had taken care of, to develop such a similar routine.

He reached out to collect his items, sensing the tenderness and care the older man had put into such a small gesture. It stirred a series of emotions to life within him, and Morty had no doubt that R had held the fabric of his shirt in the same way that he held Morty when he kissed his bruises.

It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to cry like that.

He unhooked the shirt from the wire hanger and brought it to his nose, noting that it held the distinct smell of R and his life in the record store. Of Church. He lowered himself on the seat of the toilet and cradled the scented fabric against his face to mop up the tears beginning to collect in the corner of his eyes. The thought pounded into his mind with the increasing pain of his headache, and with each throb, it grew more insistent as it crept its way into him, and settled, slowly, but resoundingly.

He needed to break up with Rick.

At the acknowledgement, he quickly turned toward the toilet and hurled the contents of his stomach into the bowl.

Still queasy, he watched the yellow-green bile swirl away with the flush, trying to remember when he had eaten bread, before letting himself flop onto the cool tile floor with another groan. He dressed himself while staring at the ceiling, trying to save as much energy as possible because it was going to be a long day.

Eventually he talked himself into getting up from the tiled floor and made his way back into Church, neatly folding R’s shirt with the intent to return it to him. He caught sight of R, blissfully asleep on the beanbag, and his heart stopped to take in the sight.

For a moment, he considered waking the record store owner, but then he second guessed himself. He didn’t think R wanted to wake up next to him.

Morty imagined crawling back on top of R, wrapping the older man's arms around him like a securing blanket and falling back asleep in his warm embrace, however, despite that being what Morty wanted so deeply, he reminded himself that last night hadn't meant anything special. R had only offered him comfort because he had needed it in that moment. Morty wanted to show R that he understood that.  

Besides, the older man was a bit… extra when it came to his schedule, and Morty didn’t want to further interrupt it. Instead, he would thank R for taking care of his drunken self in person, when he came back for Church later that day.

However, as he prepared to leave, Morty couldn't help but watch R for just a bit longer. The veteran stoner looked so vulnerable, as his chest quietly rose and fell against the black lights and lava lamps in the room, his breathing barely audible. A soft smile tugged at the corner of the dreamer’s lips, and he seemed completely at ease; his body language seemed completely open and unafraid in his slumber.

 

“Jeez, R.”

 

Morty's chest glowed as he quietly spoke his name, wondering if the man always looked like that in his sleep, or if it was because Morty had fallen asleep in his arms the night before. R stirred at the soft sound, wrapping an arm around a throw pillow, and hugged it toward him, allowing a sigh to escape from his lips.

 

“Mmm…Morty.”

 

Morty’s eyes widened as he froze, then felt his face glow red at hearing his name spoken from the man’s private thoughts. The voice was far too honest in its sweet and loving tone, and Morty's heart raced into a panic, afraid that R might wake up to witness the teen invading such a private sacred space.

He quickly set R’s shirt on the table, and backed out of Church on his bare toes.

Still not knowing what time it was, Morty slipped out the front door, silencing the bell above it. Rick and Silent Morty had not yet arrived, and it was still dark outside. The cool air pressed against him, and felt nice against his sweaty skin. He’d heard once that, during the night hours, the Citadel produced new oxygen with some sort of a cryo-process, and that was why the temperature dropped, but it had always reminded him of Earth. The sensation of breathing the cool fresh air quelled his nausea.  

As the teen looked at his phone to catch the time, his stomach clenched as he registered the number of unread texts and missed calls that had built up over the night.

Normally, he would have been at work, and would have quickly answered them, but he had been drunk, and had never made it to work. His stomach sank when he thought about having to deal with the consequences of last night.

He’d encouraged Rick to get blackout drunk after they fucked, and had run to the record store, thankful that he hadn’t been knocked unconscious beforehand.

He pushed down the fresh swell of anxiety that rose to catch in his throat, and pocketed his phone, not ready to deal with it just yet.

Morty looked back through the glass, yearning for the comfort of the record store, which already seemed so far away. He dismissed going back inside as quickly as the thought rose into his mind, self-doubt settling in the spaces where the earlier glow had fled.

He didn’t want to push the record store owner any more than he already had. It had been a big deal for R to even let Morty stay longer than their Church session last night, and he didn’t want to wear out his welcome, nor be any more of a burden than he needed to be for the older man.

Instead, Morty decided to head into work for the last few hours of his shift, catching a Yellowcab. He was still feeling queasy, and didn’t want to push his luck by walking.

 

 

 _And we will begin to love in a fashion I couldn't fathom existed._  
_And we will laugh at the fact that we ever resisted_  
_this blissful togetherness._

 _I know that everything_  
_within this surface glimpse of reality_  
_is infinitely simple and perfectly complicated,_  
_And I know that being jaded and over it_  
_is way overrated._

 _And that the colors of this world_  
_only seem faded in direct relation to the darkness_  
_with which your mind's eye is shaded,_  
_And you made it that way._

 _And you can choose to_  
_change your vision's prismic range today._

 

 

*******

 

 

 

_If we could just begin to see clearly_

_And I know that the world will continue to spin  
_ _And I know that the world will continue to spin_

_And I know that one day, you will let me in._

 

 

“Will that be all?”

 

The flash of light accompanied the chipper beep as Morty scanned another bottle of Triple X at the register. He hadn’t been paying attention to the steady stream of daytime customers, giving the bare minimum effort that his job required of him, and hadn't realized when the familiar face of his neighbor was standing on the other side of the counter.

Exo-Alpha Morty had been forcibly moved into Morty Town after he’d been found living in the Citadel sewers. The other Mortys in his complex often gossiped about whether or not he came from an alien dimension, or if his Rick experimented on him, and Morty felt a sense of solidarity remembering that the very same Mortys had similarly gossiped about _his_ red hair after he was relocated to Morty Town.  

Although the redhead hadn’t really talked much to Exo-Alpha, or anyone outside of his apartment, he wanted to keep conversation friendly. He willed himself out of his internal feelings of an apathetic hangover, and offered a smile.

“Aw jeez, sorry. I uh, I didn’t recognize you. How are you?”   

“Aw jeez, I uh – I didn’t know you worked in the day, now.”

“I usually work graves, but I’m trying to make up for some lost hours.” Morty yawned, and stretched his arms above his head, before finishing the transaction.

“Y-yeah, that uh, that makes sense.”  

Exo-Alpha nervously shifted in place and ran a hand along his neck, avoiding making eye contact as he paid for the items.  

“Have a starry day–”

“–S-Sorry. I’m sorry. I uh, I have to go!”

Exo-Alpha Morty tried to speed up Morty’s bagging process, and quickly scooped the items into a plastic bag, fumbling a candybar and nearly diving after it in a panic, before making a break for the door, rushing into another Morty as he made his escape from continued social interaction. Morty cringed for his interdimensional self, gripping the edge of the laminate surface in what could only be described as nervousness-by-proxy, and watched the figurative story of his life play out as the Morty sped away from the mini mart in a rush.

“Jeez, what was his deal?”

His co-worker had arrived just in time to catch the tail end of the transaction, and Morty shrugged, offering a greeting as he eagerly removed his nametag and apron, all too ready to clock out.

“Aw, jeez, you’re up pretty late, dawg,” he commented, observing how tired Morty looked.

“Yeah man, just…you know, one of those days, I guess,” Morty agreed, passing over the work tablet to his replacement.

“Yeah, I hear ya. Ricks. They can be pretty hard to live with sometimes. You should get a spork.”

“I think I just need a nap.”

His Co-worker held the tablet alongside his spork, while looking over the shift-log. He nodded toward Morty’s fatigued expression and waved him off shift.

“Yeah dawg, go home and conk out.”

After clocking out, Morty still hadn’t been able to bring himself to return to his apartment. He had intended to go straight home, but the second he began his usual route, a choleric sense of dread swelled up inside of him, and instead he found his feet unconsciously carrying him down the metal stairs into the entrance of the Morty Town hyperloop station.

He walked through the platform lobby in grim silence, sliding a token into the repository. He always carried a few extra tokens in his bag for occasions such as this, when he wasn't ready to go home. It had been a while since he had last been here.

Generally, he avoided riding the Central Citadel Hyperloop, but he often found himself boarding it when he needed to sit and think for an uninterrupted period of time. He maneuvered his way around the mass of Ricks and Mortys on the platform and boarded the main line that circled the entire Citadel. The trip would take just under an hour, and give him enough time to make it back to R’s in time for Church.

He glanced at the hyperloop map as he made his way through the cabin, finding a seat in the back corner next to a window. He settled into it, leaning against the glass, and resisted the urge to fall asleep as he watched the Citadel citizens continue to bustle on the platform.

The hyperloop ran both above and below ground as it circled the various districts within the Citadel, and Morty Town’s hyperloop station was in a poor state, comparatively. In the other district’s stations, one could find entire underground commerce strips that existed for the blue- and-yellow-collar working class.

A computer-synthesized Morty voice sweetly sounded over the intercom, encouraging Mortys to practice hyperloop safety, while directing Ricks to take note of the publicly accessible vomit bag locations. Morty also took note of that as the unit lurched forward, propelling his stomach into an uneasy churn.

Silently, he watched his world move around him through the glass, the motion reminding him of trips in his grandfather’s ship. He took a deep breath at the remembrance, and finally, when everything was in motion again, he felt like he could breathe. He watched the view through the window until the unit travelled into a tunnel.

 

 

 _Time keeps moving on_  
_Friends they turn away_  
_I keep movin' on_  
_But I never found out why_  
_I keep pushing so hard the dream_  
_I keep trying' to make it right  
Through another lonely day_

 

Pensive, he glanced around at the passengers: Ricks and Mortys of all kinds, in plain clothes, labcoats, construction uniforms and suits. He always thought it was unsettling, when the Ricks drank from their flask in a seemingly synchronized motion. Once the sight of one flask was procured Ricks couldn't resist reaching for their own in response. He was never sure which Rick was first, or if they all had some universal internal clock that bid them to take a drink.

He caught sight of a Hobo Morty, carefully positioned in the fetal position on the floor between the seats, snoring across the cabin. Further up, a Morty in streetwear bounced his head to some music only he could hear, pulling a gentle chuckle from the redhead, before it fell into a melancholic frown as his thoughts to drifted to the first real friend he’d made in the Citadel, wondering if he was well.  

Morty hadn’t talked to DJ Morty since the turntablist had made it out of Morty Town, and he wondered if the Sanchez Citadel Radio Station’s Co-Host still thought about their friendship in the same way Morty thought about it. Often, Morty tuned into the station to listen to his program, and sent anonymous letters in for fan mail hour, but he always stopped short of texting or calling him.

The hyperloop rose out of the underground tunnels, and Morty watched the bright colors of the Citadel flash around the cabin as it hovered into the Tourist District and into the line’s primary stop. He could make out the Citadel Media Network building from his window.

He considered sending DJ Morty a text, but stopped himself, wondering what he would even say to the friend he hadn't spoken with in years. Morty wasn’t even sure if he had the same number.

Even if Morty _did_ reach out to him, and even if DJ _did_ answer, Morty wasn’t sure he could maintain an actual friendship in his current situation. He wouldn't be able to explain to DJ why he had fallen out of touch in the first place, and the truth was, he didn’t really have a good reason. It was easier to give his time and energy to his romantic relationships. He couldn't truthfully tell his friend that it wouldn't happen again. He couldn't tell him that he'd put their friendship first.

Beside that, DJ Morty was doing great at the station, and the last thing he needed was for Morty to call him up with his absolute chaotic mess of a life. DJ had worked too hard for someone else to selfishly reach out and pull him back down into this life. Morty had to take care of his own problems.  

He traced lines against the yellow horizon as flashes of color came into focus and the Hyperloop slowed to a stop in the Central Station. It stalled for a few moments, before leaving just as quickly and efficiently as it had arrived. Morty breathed deep again, enjoying the feeling of being in motion once more, even if he really wasn’t going anywhere.  

 

 _Twenty-five years, honey just in one night, oh yeah_  
_Well, I'm twenty-five years older now_  
_So I know we can't be right_  
_And I'm no better, baby_  
_And I can't help you no more_  
_Than I did when just a girl_

 _Aww, but it don't make no difference, baby, no, no_  
_And I know that I could always try_  
_It don't make no difference, baby, yeah_  
_I better hold it now_  
_I better need it, yeah_  
_I better use it until the day I die, whoa_

 

Filled with dread at the thought of his phone, he fished the device out of his bag, determined to work through the most urgent mess of his life, before the hyperloop returned to Morty Town. He looked at the screen, impressed that it still had over half a charge left, and relieved to see that the messages had stopped coming in in the early morning hours, likely around the time that Rick's Tavern opened.

He skimmed the increasingly erratic texts as his stomach constricted on itself, leaving a renewed taste of bile in his mouth.

 

_ > i fuckyou, red. i’m done. i'm doen with yoqu noithinj liekmorty _

_ > Don’kt lie to mef. where the fuck dkid you sleep last inght, cause iqt sure as hegll wasn’t ehre. _

_ > you wanna ihgh road me, Red? wneh youm’re out fuckipng some Rick like I n't knw behinbd my bacxk? _

_ > You _

_ > bet he fucks you readl sgood, calls yoju Red. your so fuceasy.     _

_ > ?uo afucking the manager too? Richole called the cops. Put u gun at mn.e _

_ > I’m outisde. Come out and talke tom e. _

_ > Take a break and call me. I’m giving you 10 minutes before I show up. _

_ > Nice try with the silent treatment. Tell me when you’re clocking out. I’ll meet you. _

_ > now _

_ > Answer my calls. _

_ > Red, where are you? _

_ > I asked you a question _

_ > Where are you? _

 

He deleted them all with a shaky finger, before moving to play the last voicemail that had been sent early in the morning hours. He stared at the play button for a long moment, feeling his pulse race itself into a panic before he had even listened to the words contained within it.

The sounds of breaking glass filtered over the receiver, as an angry voice screamed into the phone before breaking down into an emotional, drunken rage. Although he was apologizing, he screamed at Morty drunkenly through his phone.

_“Red-Shirt! R~ed! RED! C’mon Red-Shirt, Pick up the fuckin’ phone. Why won’t – you won’t talk to me? I’m sorry– Fuck! Re~d-Shirt. I-I-I-I-I’m Sorry. I’M. SORRY. Is that what you wanna hear– That I fucked up? I didn’t mean to scare yo…you weren’t listening to me. I can’t lose you. Don't make me lose another Morty. I need you, Morty. I know I’m hard to live with, but I love you, Red–”_

“–Don’t say that!”

He stopped the playback at the words, as his lip sullenly quivered. His grandfather was the only Rick who Morty wanted to call him by the name of Red, and Labcoat Rick knew that.

It was the only thing Morty had ever truly asked of him.

His emotion flared in anger and without thinking about it, Morty unsympathetically deleted the remaining voicemails, catching the painful lump that rose in his throat. He squeezed the device in a vice grip until his entire arm shook with the pressure, and he fought his desire to throw it across the space in the cabin.

 

 _Well, I'm never going to love you any better, babe_  
_And I'm never going to love you right  
So you'd better take it now, right now_

 _Oh! But it don't make no difference, babe, hey,_  
_And I know that I could always try._  
_There's a fire inside everyone of us,_  
_You'd better need it now,_  
_I got to hold it, yeah,  
I better use it till the day I die._

The intercom announced the Morty Town stop approaching, and the redhead gathered his things and exited his journey where he began. Similarly, all Morty ever seemed to do was run in a giant circle that went nowhere.

He paused after stepping over the threshold to the platform, glancing back at the hyperloop unit as it left, carrying its passengers away. He gripped the strap of his messenger bag as he stared past the cautionary strip of thick yellow paint at the platform’s edge, toward the glowing, ember-like rail guides that cut through the darkness.

Momentarily entertaining the passing thought of throwing himself from the platform’s edge, Morty stepped closer, onto the dangerous yellow stripe, looking past the threshold into something beyond. Suddenly, a hyperloop sped past his vision, the sudden rush of wind causing Morty to jump backwards in shock and scramble back onto the safety of the platform. Without a passing concern to the teen, or Morty Town, the unit continued to fly through the station, pulling Morty from his concerning thoughts.

He picked himself up from the ground, and began to make his way out of the station without looking back over his shoulder. Regardless of how many relationships he had been in, Morty was never surprised to always find himself back at square one; it was all Morty had been able to do since his grandfather had left him, and despite how hard the teen attempted to throw his life back into motion, Morty hadn’t been able to break away from feeling like he was always going nowhere fast.

His chest fluttered, however, in hopeful anticipation, before it quelled into a forlorn exhale as he thought of the record store owner, while he exited the station and emerged back above ground in his neighborhood. R felt different to Morty, in a way that was currently indescribable, but the sting of his implied rejection seized his heart in a confused anxiety.

Although Morty wanted to be with R, he wasn’t sure if the stoner wanted the same.

He wrapped his hand around the wooden Church box in his bag, feeling its weight as he pressed his palm against its solid form, and taking a deep breath before turning in the direction of the record store.

He was ready to tell R what he wanted, and he was ready to let R make a choice.

 

 

***

 

 

 _In a gadda da vida, honey_  
_Don't you know that I'm lovin' you_  
_In a gadda da vida, baby  
Don't you know that I'll always be true_

 _Oh, won't you come with me_  
_And take my hand_  
_Oh, won't you come with me_  
_And walk this land  
Please take my hand_

R passed the plastic cube to Morty, who admired what looked like a tiny weed terrarium.

“He was originally saying ‘In the Garden of Eden’ but he was too shitfaced and into the song, ‘n’ they kept recording. It’s a good pick for this strain, cause we’re about to smoke the holy herb, and get high as hell, Morty.”

R spoke in contradiction as Morty opened his Church box to reveal R’s obsidian pipe and caught a smirk from the record store owner that just as quickly faded into a soft smile, before being replaced by something else entirely, that was more withdrawn.

Morty ignored the display of subtle emotion. He was unsure of how to approach the subject with R again, and wasn’t sure if he even wanted to. The record store owner had spiraled into a panicked breakdown in the record store, and had only in the last few moments, after they had settled into Church, begun to return to his regular demeanor.

“I’m sorry, R. I left without waking you up this morning cause I thought you’d be mad.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. Had a minor meltdown, but that’s just the way~y it goes.”

Before Morty could further respond, R changed the subject back to the music in an obvious gesture of avoidance. “The original song is 17 minutes long.” He offered the information as he watched Morty set things up for their session.

After leading R to Church, Morty hesitantly suggested they smoke out of the pipe from R’s wooden Church box, knowing it held a special significance to the stoner, and R had unexpectedly agreed, letting Morty take the lead through their session.

“Your generation can't listen to anything longer than the three minute radio Edit. It’s why psychedelic music never made it in the commercial world, cause they were as long as they needed to be. The live music was even better, cause it was about being in the moment.”

Morty listened to R as he rambled into the beginning of another music lecture, and paused to consider what the stoner had disapprovingly said about the time requirements of the radio station. Curious, Morty wondered if maybe that was why things didn’t work out between the record store owner, and his ex-Rick at Sanchez Citadel Radio.  

“Is that why you and Radio Rick uh…?” Morty trailed, unsure of where he was going with his question. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask R, and today hadn’t been a normal day for either of them. R dismissively shrugged in the teen’s direction, before continuing.

“Nah, _he_ got it. The whole idea of a summer fling–  But I was a Rick, kid. I-If it were a Beatles song, it would have been _Dear Prudence_.”

“He’s a Rick, too, though.” It seemed like a good response as it passed through Morty’s thoughts, and out of his mouth, unfiltered, but Morty had been far too exhausted today to stop them. The room fell silent and R drummed his hand on the carpet in a slightly anxious contemplation.

“…He is now.”

“So, uh… what happened?”

Morty decided, against his better judgement, to press for details, causing the stoner to offer a terse response, with a hint impatience in his voice.

“The same thing that’s happening with us, kid. Look, let’s just get high.”

Morty sighed at R’s deflective answer. R had earlier said that his fear was irrational, and maybe that was why Morty couldn’t understand it, but it almost seemed as if R was stuck – paralyzed in fear, and unable to change things, himself. Maybe he couldn’t do it on his own.

“Is that why you’re so afraid?”

“Just another one of the rabbits in the glass onion.” R answered vaguely, with growing irritation in his voice that Morty ignored, while holding out with the weed to get more information from the record store owner.

“And what’s that?”

“A Glass Onion? Well…for Lennon, it was a euphemism for living in a glass coffin. For Salinger, it was living in the layers of his mind after he couldn’t figure out how to be a _Catcher in The Rye._..stop time...stop changing.”

R hugged his knees toward him on the carpet, and his eyes flicked toward the wooden Church box, before gazing into the black fringes of the carpet with a sullen expression.

“For me? It’s spinning round and around in this distorted fucking fishbowl.”

R sighed, before drawing the redhead’s attention back to the strain of weed, speaking with a bit more nervousness in his voice than before. Morty sighed in relief, eager to change the topic.

“Anyways, these are Sun Rocks – shit’s more potent than the wax I was smoking yesterday. I-I-It’s like the chronic for concentrates. I uh, don’t have any other weed today, so start small when you’re hitting this. You can always toke more, but you can’t toke less.”

Morty smiled to himself as he nodded at the stoner’s instructions. R was no longer angry about the dab rig, and had all but forgotten it, trusting the redhead to smoke something even more potent with him today in Church.

The flower smelled like an overripe fruit wrapped in a mix of floral scents, and Morty pinched off a gooey piece of bud as he pulled it out of the plastic box and quickly pushed it into the mouth of his pipe, cutting the trails of sticky oil short against the sharp edge of the box.

“Also, don’t cough out the smoke – it's insulting to this kush. This is dipped in Ambrosia, Morty. The nectar of the Gods. It’s like the forbidden fruit of _both_ trees, kid… It’s like tasting sin.”

Morty nodded, lifting the mouthpiece to his lips, inhaling slowly as he lit the side of the bowl. R corrected his actions, which would have been fine under normal circumstances.

“Torch it, kid, you need a good cherry for this kush garden. Gotta _set the controls for the heart of the sun_. Kind of poetic… the stronger the high, the faster you burn through it, cause Earth keeps its secrets”

 

 

Because of the oil, it took a bit longer to get the center of the bowl to burn, but as the oil ignited and coated the surrounding herb, the weed gave off a light hissing sound accompanied by the occasional crackling pop as its cherry glowed a molten yellow, flickering in bursts of light like a small firefly.

“Yeah, baby, listen to that snake crackle. Coat your tongue in that forbidden sweetness, and write your questions to Heaven.”

Morty took a small hit, feeling the tart satin smoke grow heavy as it slid into his lungs and coiled into his chest where he held his breath. The redhead did his best to not cough on the exhale, and as his breath trickled over his tongue it tasted excessively sweet, like fermented summer grapes.

Its colors emulated the harmonious multi-colored gasses of a nebula, and a pictureesque image  of space and stars swirled into the space surrounding them.

Morty stared at it in fascination, forgetting to pass the pipe. The smoke did not dissipate, but lingered while traces of dust floated into the cloud’s haze to be quietly ignited. A tiny glittering star system danced around the pair of stoners, as the intoxicating smell of sweetness permeated everything.  

Holding back a few coughs, Morty passed the bowl to R, who tossed him an impressed smirk for successfully leading the Church sermon. The small gesture was made even sweeter, considering the events of his day. Morty leaned into him, wanting to be closer, and R carefully slid away, remaining physically distant and reserved. The older man took a deep hit and expanded the stardust cosmos, and the teen let his body fall onto the carpet, and watched the image in awe, having forgotten how much he had enjoyed watching the stars.

They had always made him feel insignificant, and there, unexpectedly, in that existential emotion, he felt free, because on a scale so unending, even his own insignificance didn’t matter. And if it could, then insignificance, itself, was also something just as meaningful.

Morty lost his sensation of gravity completely, drifting aimlessly through space, and his entire body glowed, submerged into a gentle warming sensation. He smiled wide, feeling like he was made of the surrounding star stuff, and couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. Then he smiled broadly at hearing his own laugh, remembering how nice it felt to earnestly laugh in such a way. He closed his eyes and listened to the music, bobbing his head as the sound traveled through him.

He felt like he had been floating on the carpet forever, but realized the song playing had only just reached the chorus. At the realization, he grinned, feeling time dilating around him, and tilted his head to continue watching the microscopic fireworks spark between himself and the older man smoking with him.

R spilled another stream of stars into the void of the eclectic cathedral, and Morty’s focus returned to the song currently moving through his mind, separating the sounds of each instrument, as he listened to each distinct pattern simultaneously, unsure at how exactly he was doing it, but accepting that he was able to do it, nonetheless.   

Instinctively, he wanted to share the experience with R, and found himself reaching out for the stoner’s hand. He flailed his arm, batting around the carpet, until the motion was stilled by fingers, which slipped effortlessly into the spaces between his own.

Morty released a contented sigh at the the thought. Their literal and figurative being-together-ness of the moment.

“I wanna be together with you.”

“I’m right here, kid,” R dismissively responded, as he gazed at the shimmering, burning star-like embers that floated over him.

On the table, between the pair, the cherry of the bowl continued to burn hot like a sun, glowing as its molten core continued to hiss, its life fueled by the oil extract.

Morty’s vision disoriented in a subtle but noticeable way, and the edges blurred as he became aware of his heart quietly beating, and had to make sure he was still breathing.

“Does time ever feel weird to you when you get high?”

He felt his mouth shaping words, but didn’t hear them for a few moments. Morty turned his head to look at R, and his vision lagged behind him. Everything felt as if it were moving in slow motion.

“In this room when I’m high… It’s the only time that feels normal.”

R’s grip tightened around Morty’s hand as they watched the universe quietly burn around them.  Eventually, the older man broke the silence with another timid, nearly imperceptible squeeze that pulled Morty ever so slightly into his presence. The redhead's eyes fluttered open to find R moments away, staring into him, and he caught his breath in a stunned gasp.

The stoner’s imperceptibly deep blue irises were refracting the surrounding lights in the room, and their cacophony of rainbow colors danced in iridescent, shimmering flecks, each with a life of its own as they burned against the dark-hued surface of the stoner’s eyes.

 

“Are you high?”

 

Morty felt the heat rise into his cheeks as he stared into the moving kaleidoscopes, and felt his chest ignite with the beat of his heart, alive with the same burning force that lit the surrounding stars. He swallowed at the honest, simple question.

 

“…Yeah, I'm high, R.”

 

R’s nestled closer to Morty, his eyes glowing with a prismatic light, as their edges curved upwards in an earnest smile. He slightly chuckled at the teen’s flustered reaction, as a thumb smoothed over his hand, expressing unspoken thoughts in a perfect moment. Eventually, the motion over the redhead’s hand fell still, and a tepid, soft-spoken confession filled its space.

"Good…I like making you feel good."

 

Morty was too far gone to coherently respond to that ambiguously innocent statement, and when he had tried, he discovered that he had forgotten all the important things that he wanted to say to R, within the walls that allowed him to feel safe to share them. All he could respond with were the simple, immediate, honest emotions of the current moment they innocently existed together in.

He could feel the blood pulsing through R’s fingertips, around Morty’s own as they clasped together, and he shyly squeezed R’s hand in return with his own innocent confession.

 

"I really like when you make me feel good, R."

 

He fell asleep.

 

***

 

 

 _I want you, I want you so bad, babe_  
_I want you so bad, it's driving me mad_  
_It's driving me mad_

_She's so heavy_

 

Confused, Morty woke up from having dozed off on the carpet, unsure of how long he had been out. He propped himself up on his elbows, and looked around. R had moved to the beanbag, and, with his eyes closed, slowly swayed his head up and down with the beats of the music. His legs were parted in relaxation, giving Morty a glimpse of his own lustful imagination as the redhead shamelessly stared at him from the carpet.

His eyes traced the older man’s body, studying the bulge between his parted thighs, remembering earlier, when he had woken up with the stoner's erection pressed against him. He bit his lip, and groaned to himself, thinking of the way R had called out his name from within his dreams. Morty's body began to warm, burning sweetly with desire.

With each beat of his heart, blood slowly pulsed into his member, and the aching, hardening sensation of his growing erection swelled as it stretched alongside the fabric of his jeans– jeans that R had handled with care when he washed them. Morty’s breath hitched at the thought of R’s steadfast hands running the length of his thighs.   

Indulgently, Morty reached out and palmed himself, allowing his eyes to slip closed at the release of the pleasurable sensation. He imagined it was R making him feel good, and bit his lip, before letting them part as his throat tightened to hold the sounds back, resulting in a breathy whimper as his erection continued to warm and fill against him. It pressed his ballsack into the warmth of his thighs, and the teen swallowed, hard, and squirmed against the carpet to keep the building pressure from becoming too intense.  

He stole another quick glance at R, overwhelmed by thoughts of the man touching him with practiced, calloused fingers in the same confident way that he handled his bud. He fantasized R making love to him with the same attention to detail and utterly shameless devotion that he made love to his music, and weed.

He imagined R, unapologetically moving inside of him with a slow and sensuous ebb and flow of his hips, and the redhead’s muscles clenched around the imagined cock of the stoner seconds away from him. Precum spilled from his erection with the aching, desirous thoughts that continued to build, soaking into the denim of his jeans.

With shallow breath, the redhead adjusted his swollen flesh, before he sat up and crawled over to the beanbag where R swayed, fully immersed in his own experience of the drug. Morty felt his senses lag with his movement, and considered that he was still experiencing an altered state of mind. He paused to kneel on the ground beside him, and savored the image of the stoner once more, feeling his tentative hesitation, burn into a frenzied desire to taste of his skin, and it bloomed with a sticky, fevered sweetness, that beckoned him to thirst for knowledge. He needed to know.

He crawled onto the man's chest, straddling him in the embrace of the beanbag, and his knees fell against R’s sides. The boy cupped the stoner's face, and R opened his eyes when he felt the redhead’s touch, looking around for a moment, before pressing a gentle hand against Morty’s chest with a confused intake of breath.

“…Woah, kid.”

Morty’s fingers held R tightly with sureness, suddenly aflame in ecstatic purpose. He stared into R’s eyes, and moved against him, expressing a suggestive sultry sigh.

“R, listen.” He rocked against him. “I want you. I want you so much that it burns. I want you.”

Morty motioned to grind against R once more, and the stoner grabbed the redhead’s hips in response, grunting out a restrained moan as he held him in place, fingertips increasing their pressure as Morty continued to squirm against him.

Before he could say anything, Morty tangled his fingers through the threads of R’s hair, leaning into him for a deep and searching, open-mouthed kiss. R made a shocked, needful noise deep in the back of his throat at the closeness, before he pulled away in confusion, staring at the redhead through half-lidded, searching red eyes.

He gave himself to the moment.

Eagerly, he lifted his own hands to cup Morty's face, and returned himself to the teen, deepening their kiss as desperate fingers worked their way through the redhead’s hair. Morty softly mewled and parted his lips as R entered into him with a searing tongue, pulling him closer.  

Indulgently, he took Morty’s flesh into his mouth, feeling it swell against his tongue as he suckled the redhead's lower lip, leaving it flushed and swollen with a gentle bite. The stoner released a heady groan, steadily into the redhead's body, licking a hot trail along Morty’s neck toward his ear, and buried his nose into the tangled mess of crimson hair as Morty’s teeth bit into the ripe skin of his flesh, and R thrust himself upwards from the beanbag into the heat sitting on top of him.

Morty moaned as he dug his hands beneath the neckline of R’s shirt, feeling the naked skin of his back, while his other fisted the fabric of the man’s shirt as they moved together in a gentle swaying motion that had become dizzying. He cried out the stoner's name in encouragement, and R’s movements suddenly stilled as the redhead called out to him, breaking their trance.

Still panting, R wrapped his hands around Morty’s shoulders and carefully pushed their bodies apart. His breath fell into a series of heavy exhales as he allowed his thoughts to catch up with his marijuana-clouded mind. Their eyes met for a short pause, and R’s questioning gaze was terrified as he searched Morty's expression, cutting through Morty’s own foggy feelings of lust. He frantically spoke to the teen, eyes bright with fear, as he continued to hold their bodies apart.

“Morty, don’t ask me to do this to you. I-I cant. W-We can’t– We can’t do this.”

“But…I want to be together with you,” he panted, equally breathless.

R smoothed his hands down Morty’s shoulders and along the sides of his arms, before releasing his grip. He palmed a hand across his face and pinched the bridge of his nose in silent deliberation.

  
“–I don’t want to be with him anymore, R. I want you.”

“Yeah, well _I_ want to selfishly get high, and get you high. And that's it. This is – It’s too much for me, Morty. It makes me think too much.”

“Then don't think about it. Get high on me. Make me feel good.”

“Morty–”

Morty reached for R’s hand, guiding it to press against his erection as he sighed in encouragement, and leaned into R once more, whispering temptations into his ear. The redhead bucked against the stoner's hand, who moved to pull it away, against Morty's protests. The teen caught R’s hand, however, and attempted to direct it back toward him.

“I wanna give myself to you, R.”

“Morty, knock it off!”

Morty let go of R’s hand, and instead drifted his own fingers toward R, smoothing his hand over the denim fabric, wrapping around the hard outline of his warming erection, before reaching to fumble over the clasp of the stoner's jeans.

“You want me, too, R.”

Morty needed this. He needed R to accept him.

Ricks never had strong willpower, and once the older man gave in, and allowed himself to have Morty, R would realize how much he had wanted it all along. The teen wanted to help push R past his fear. It was how his grandfather had shown him.

R wanted Morty, and Morty wanted him.

The redhead leaned into the older man, fighting against the weight of R’s restraining hand for another searching kiss.

“I want you, R–”

“–Dammit, Morty!”

 

 

Morty felt his body being pushed away with a heavy shove, and suddenly found himself on the floor. He sat back up and looked at R, who glared down at him with an angry scowl. His face burned in humiliation at the forceful rejection, but despite he challenged the stoner.

“Why don’t you want this, R?!”

“I don’t know how else I can fuckin’ explain it, Morty!”

Morty sat up from the floor in a huff, angry at R’s stubbornness, as tears stung the corners of his eyes. He looked around the room to gather his things, and angrily began shoving them into his messenger bag.

“No, R, I get it! You're full of contradictions, but mostly full of shit, right? You've built up this idea of who you think I am and you– you only want the part of me that isn't shitty, but all I am is a broken fucking mess! Why can’t you accept all of me!”

“Why do we have to _fuck_ for you to think I do!?”

“Because you’re a–”

_“A what?”_

Morty caught himself on the words and avoided R’s gaze, immediately turning his expression towards the ground. He could sense R’s frustration filling the space of the room as his voice dared the teen to finish his statement, but he wouldn’t. Instead, Morty rose to leave, and the older man caught his wrist to stop him.

“Stop running off when you get upset–”

The teen spun away from R, yanking his wrist from the older man’s grasp, and R’s own hand fell limp in the air, drawing after him.

“Hey, look at me.” R forcefully calmed himself as he spoke, “–You can look at me. You can have emotions in front of me, Morty. Just– let’s just – what the hell was that!”

Angry that tears were beginning to spill from his eyes, released at R’s insistence. Morty shook his head and pulled further away, angry at R for making him feel safe enough in Church to share them. Frustrated at the record store owner for wanting to keep the teen at arm's length because he was so afraid of himself. The redhead's voice shook as it rose in defense to keep himself from breaking into tears in front of him again.

 

He hadn’t allowed himself to cry like that since his grandfather had held him.

 

“No!" he firmly interjected. "You don’t get to say that! Stop saying shit like that when you're too afraid to do the same – To even want me!”

Morty began to make his way to the door, and the stoner fell out of the beanbag rising after him. The look of resignation on his face was palpable.

“Morty, wait! Just…” His voice shrunk as he looked away from Morty and he sighed in acquiescence. “Just tell me if you’re gonna come back or not…”

He wiped the tears before they could fall from his eyes, before he turned back to face R, taking a deep breath.

“I don’t wanna mess this up, R, but I don’t even know what - what _this_ is.”

The teen was tired of feeling like he was going nowhere fast. He was tired of making mistakes. He still wasn’t entirely sure what he had with R, but he knew for certain that he didn’t want to fuck it up like everything else he had thrown himself at over the past few years. To be able to do that, Morty knew, deep down, that he couldn't bring his mess into R’s life. He had known it since the moment he knew he needed to leave Labcoat Rick.

He didn’t want to make a mistake with R that he couldn’t fix.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, and glanced back at R before leaving, holding back the wave of tears he refused to share.

There was no way that he could explain everything that he had been feeling to R. There were so many complicated swirling emotions that even he didn’t really understand them himself. All he knew, in the current moment, was where he needed to start if he really wanted to have a chance with R.

He resolutely decided that he would come back, after he got his shit together. 

 

“I'll come back, R. I promise.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **R References John Lennon’s Assassination:** J. D. Salinger, a Returned war veteran and an American author known best for his novel _The Catcher in the Rye,_ explores loss of innocence, existentialism, identity, belonging, alienation, loss, and connection. After fatally shooting John Lennon, his assassin, Mark David Chapman was arrested with a copy of the book that he had purchased that same day, inside of which he had written: "To Holden Caulfield, From Holden Caulfield, This is my statement".
> 
>  **R says that Holden/Salinger couldn't figure out how to become a “catcher in the rye”,** which is a reference to Holden’s fantastical desire to act as a guardian, and protect children from losing their innocence and growing up. R is much more pessimistic than Salinger, and views Mortys and their innocence through a similar lens of grief. Where Salinger optimistically sees beauty in the continual return to innocence, R sees a cycle that pointlessly spins, and blames Ricks for forcing Mortys to grow up too quickly.
> 
>  **On & On (1997)**This song is heavily influenced by the Nations of Gods and Earths, an Afrocentric belief-system that utilizes incremental degrees of learning and a deeply esoteric oral tradition. The N.G.E. is a system that promotes education, morals, ethics, self-empowerment, and self-realization through the awakening and illumination of the inner and divine light. 
> 
> **Kozmic Blues (1969)** Janis Joplin described the meaning to RS Magazine: "'Kozmic Blues' just means that no matter what you do, man, you get shot down anyway…I can't write a song unless I'm really traumatic, emotional, and I've gone through a few changes, I'm very down… ‘No one's ever gonna love you any better and no one's gonna love you right.’ That line is about how different people perceive love and time.” Joplin explained that she was the kind of person who thought that love was supposed to last 25 years, so when it didn't she would be devastated. To her lover, it wasn't as painful because he never expected it to last that long. Joplin spelled it with a K to take the edge off. "It's too down and lonely a trip to be taken seriously," she said. "It's like a joke on itself."
> 
>  **In-A Gadda-Da-Vida (1968)** This was written by Doug Ingle, Iron Butterfly's vocalist and keyboard player. His father was a church organist. 
> 
> **Set the Controls For the Heart of the Sun (1968)** Some of R’s thoughts about the Sun Rocks, as well as some lines in this Pink Floyd song, are borrowed from an untitled poem by poet Li Shangyin (c. 813–858) in the Tang Dynasty, more specifically, taken from Li He’s (790–816) poem “Don’t go out the door.” which talks about a madman pacing out the shape of heaven. (A slight implication of truth equating to madness.)
> 
>  **Glass Onion (1968) and “Paul is Dead”** John Lennon used meaningless lyrics to confuse people who were reading too much into his songs. A glass onion is a coffin with a see-through lid. Because of this, it became a big part of the "Paul is Dead" hoax. Lennon sang, "The Walrus is Paul." In many European countries, a walrus represents death.
> 
>  **Dear Prudence (1968)** During a Retreat in India, Lennon encountered Prudence Farrow, who was deeply depressed, and would lock herself in her room in meditation. He said this about writing the song for her: “No one was to know that sooner or later she was to go completely berserk. All the people around were very worried about the girl, so, we sang to her.”
> 
> According to Donovan _(Season of the Witch)_ , who was also on the retreat, he taught John Lennon the "clawhammer" guitar technique that he used on this track. "He was so fascinated by fingerstyle guitar that he immediately started to write in a different color and was very inspired." 
> 
> **I Want You (She's So Heavy) (1969)** was written by John Lennon and closed side one of the _Abbey Road_ LP. Lennon wrote the song about his love for Yoko Ono. He commented in an interview to RS magazine, “When you're drowning you don't say 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help me,' you just scream. And in She's So Heavy I just sang 'I want you, I want you so bad, she's so heavy, I want you,' like that.”
> 
>  **Purple Haze (1967)** Jimi Hendrix’s Return to America: In March of 1967, _Purple Haze,_ the single, was released in England and shot up the charts. The lyrics seem to vividly portray an acid trip, resonating strongly with vietnam soldiers and returned vets, but Hendrix claimed this was inspired by a dream where he was walking under the sea. When the recording was sent to Hendrix's American label, a note said, "deliberate distortion, do not correct." Three months later, the Experience gave its first U.S. performance at the Monterey Pop Festival. It was at this show that Hendrix doused his guitar with lighter fluid and set it on fire.


	11. I'll Worship Like a Dog at the Shrine of Your Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes...tears only burn in solitude.” – Emil Cioran_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** There’s a pretty explicit physical abuse scene in this chapter, and Morty deeply ruminates in some feelings of worthlessness. Be sure to read the general TWs and/or the chapter recap if you are sensitive to these themes. 
> 
> **General TWs:** explicit physical violence, soft and hard manipulation, verbal threats of violence and rape, gaslighting, heavy emotions and angst  
>   
>  Spoiler Summary Feature is Disabled. Click "Show Creator's Style" at the top of this page to activate. (Mobile Friendly)

 

 

 _Just gonna stand there and watch me burn_  
_But that's alright because I like the way it hurts_

 _Just gonna stand there and hear me cry_  
_But that's alright, because I love the way you lie_

_I love the way you lie_

 

 

_"It’s all right, Red-shirt. Look, I get it. You're just fucked up and can't get over your Rick – Y-you wanna try’n see him in every Rick.”_

 

There was something symbolically cleansing about sex.

About knowing that the worst parts of Morty – the broken, dirty, poisoned, battered pieces of him were wanted, desired even. Which was the most insidious thing about sex with Labcoat Rick. He welcomed Morty as he was, and accepted him.

In turn, Morty expressed his desire to reciprocate that acceptance, granting Rick permission to reveal his aggressive, violent impulses. Morty kissed Rick’s knuckles while accepting his truth, understanding that he had fallen in love with a deeply troubled Rick who could not escape his violent heart of darkness, and he offered kisses like prayers onto the older man’s brokenness as if they could miraculously mend the scars of his existence.

 

He called it love.

 

_It was never enough._

 

It was at R’s insistence, or rather, his meta-self-accusations, that Morty had made the connection between Labcoat Rick’s possessive and controlling nature, to his self-hatred, and his deep-seated insecurities and fears; Morty couldn’t help but consider if all Ricks were as controlled by fear as R.

 

_“I fear the way you love, kid. I'm afraid you’ll give everything to me, and I won’t be strong enough to stop myself from taking it even after you have nothing left to give. That you won’t be strong enough to stop me from doing exactly that– cause if you were, then you’d also be smart enough to leave before I could.”_

 

Labcoat Rick would never openly admit such fear to Morty, but the teen wondered if, similarly, R was also running from the same violent past that many of the Ricks he had been with shared. 

Morty didn’t know if his love would ever be enough to make it better.

 

_“The best thing you can do is get away from me, kid.”_

 

Deep down, he knew that it wasn’t. All Morty could promise was that, as a testament to his love, he would never leave.

And now he was planning to leave.

 

_“Leave! If you’re the kind of Morty who wants to leave, then I didn’t fuckin’ want you anyways!”_

 

Leaving was easy, but it was hard to figure out where to go. It wasn’t the first time that Rick had shouted after Morty as he ran away, knowing he would eventually have no other option but to return.

However, R was different.

The words were so ordinary, but there lived within them something almost poetic in their transience, and they applied to so much more than music, resonating deep within Morty’s being, as R related to him through rose-colored hues one of the most simple and yet complicated truths about existence, setting his world into motion.

He felt like he had woken up.

 

_“You either feel it or you don’t, that’s really all there is to it, kid.”_

 

Church had become his place to go to remember who he was. R had become his sanctuary.

R had often told Morty that he wasn’t different from the other Ricks, but as Morty dragged his feet to carry him back home to a Rick who seemed to be R’s polar opposite, Morty felt that statement could not have been further from the truth.

 

R _was_ different.

 

Aside from the topic of a sexual relationship, R had never disregarded Morty’s feelings. He never presumed to know what was best for Morty. He just...was. 

And when Morty spent time in his presence, especially in Church, the redhead never felt like he had to be anything. Any kind of Morty. He just got to... be.

The idea of simply existing within the presence of another, without any expectations or motivations, had been a radical experience, and Morty was unable to describe the exhilarating feeling of relief that accompanied such freedom.  

Then, within that space, through the action of a single, small kiss, Morty experienced how R made love. Within the precious fleeting moment, unafraid of being burnt, R kissed him– not with demand, but with distilled self-evident desire, and it burned white-hot as the stoner stoked the redhead’s rhythmic pulse, igniting the blood in his veins. His heart moved to R’s expert touch, and it flickered and danced in his embrace as if they had nothing and everything to lose in allowing themselves to burn.

Then, the moment of ecstasy was lost to the seconds of time that passed between them, and R retreated, fearful that the flames he had ignited would consume him.

 

_“I fear the way you love, kid. I'm afraid you’ll give everything to me.”_

 

In that moment, Morty had wanted to give him everything. 

But R thought he didn’t deserve anything that Morty wanted to give.

 

Morty understood feeling undeserving of being wanted, undeserving of being needed; often, Morty was too afraid to want something for himself, feeling that, if he could at least make sex pleasurable for his partner, then he wasn't completely worthless. He cringed at the remembrance of his actions.  

 

_“I wanna give myself to you, R.”_

 

Part of him wanted R, the other part of him was convinced that offering his body was the only way R would want him. He’d laid R’s hand against him, believing that if he could give R everything, then the older man might accept him. The broken, dirty, poisoned, battered pieces of him, and if R did that, then Morty might be deserving of R’s love, even if it were for only a moment.

He wanted to accept those things within R too. It was the closest thing to love that Morty knew.

R’s rejection cut deeply, because it reminded Morty of how unwanted he truly was.

 

Maybe Morty was too broken to make love with R.   

Maybe in Church he’d already made love with R.

 

He palmed away tears, catching them at the corners of his eyes, before they grew as he passed Rick’s Tavern, crossing over from the Heights and into Morty Town, continuing back to his apartment.

He still wasn’t ready to go back, but it was the only place he could go to try to move forward.

Morty wasn’t sure at what point sex with Rick had turned into something revolting. Something that made him feel gross and ashamed. It had been a sudden alarm going off in his head, screaming at him that everything was wrong until he could no longer ignore it.

But wanting to correct a mistake and being able to were entirely different things.

***

 

 

“Where the– where the fuck have you been, Red-shirt? It’s your night off tonight. I came home early cause I wanted to spend some fuckin’ time with you.” 

He was hoping that he had left the record store early enough to make it home before Labcoat Rick, but Morty’s stomach dropped as his gravelly voice accosted the teen, before he had even fully entered into his apartment.

He had been ready to tell Labcoat Rick that it was over, but the second he heard the tone in Rick’s voice, all the confidence within him iced over in apprehension.

“You fucking even look at that phone of yours, or were you too busy playing with your dick?”

Morty carefully closed the door behind him, and kept his voice quiet, purposefully ignoring the accusing statement about the missed messages. He didn't want to offer anything that could potentially escalate the situation. There was no doubt in his mind that Rick had been drinking the entire day, and waiting for Morty to return. The teen swallowed, calming his nerves before speaking in a steady, monotone voice.

 

“I was just out...”

 

He kept the explanation short and vague. Although the older man bitterly scoffed in response, less information was always better. The suffocating tension in the room held Morty against the door. The redhead avoided eye contact with him, and instead glanced around the space that burned with the cautionary color of a life reduced to ashes. Stained burnt orange walls softly melted into the yellow low-light of his lamp, and the textured layers of water damaged paint seemed to scream as it shriveled back onto itself, alive under the soft, deceptive glow.

A vintage television set and a small chair were all Morty had been able to afford, and the florescent light of the small screen bounced off the dark charcoal metal floor in pulsing flickers. Morty had always thought the ashen room looked as if it would swallow him. The small red carpet he had purchased to place at his doorway did little to calm his nerves whenever he passed through the threshold into the space which he called home.

A fermented sweetness clung to the air, belonging to the olive green beer bottles and souring pieces of garbage that were strewn along the floor of the single room studio, accumulating at the base of their single bed. His grandfather’s record player rested neatly on the pristine surface of the small table next to it, along with a pair of headphones. He stared into the chaotic abyss, wondering at what point he had stopped living here.   

Rick interrupted his thoughts, speaking over the noise of the television.     

“I asked you a question, Red-shirt.”

“I picked up an extra shift. I was hungry.”

He automatically answered from a list of pre-planned responses. It was easier to keep lies built out of half-truths consistent. They both knew that Morty consumed most of his meals at the Morty Mart: expired waste foods that he made an effort to bring back to the apartment for Rick as well, alongside alcohol purchased on his tab. His apartment wasn’t equipped with a kitchen, but even if it was, his budget was extremely tight. His last few paydays, especially, had come up short because he was continually running up his tab on alcohol purchases.

It was the quickest way to sate Rick’s bad moods.  

 

 _Something came along, grabbed a hold of me_  
_And it felt just like a ball and chain_  
_Honey, that's exactly what it felt like  
_ _Honey, just dragging me down_

 

Labcoat Rick had quit his job at the factory, and had fallen into a rough patch. Shortly after they had met, Morty agreed to sneak Rick into his apartment until he could get back on his feet, and Rick had taken full advantage of his kindness, but made Morty feel like he wasn't alone in return. 

The older man sat, a bottle between his fingers, hanging over the edge of the chair’s arm. He lifted it to his lips to take a swig before speaking, intentionally refusing to look toward Morty, and belched loudly into the space between them.  

“You going back to that fuckin’ record store?”

“No, I’m not.” Morty hated how well he was able to lie, or rather, to conceal the nerves in his voice. Too many times a stutter had resulted in Rick being suspicious of his answer, and he would attempt to pull the truth out of him with violence.  

 

“...But you want to, don’t you?”

 

“Rick–” 

“–DON’T YOU!”

 

The glass bottle flew past his face, shattering on the wall behind him, and Morty didn’t flinch. He wasn’t sure when he had trained himself to stop flinching, either. Internally, however, the feeling in the pit of his stomach coiled tightly, as an intuitive knowing settled into his nerves. He felt sick with apprehension as his heart began to race, and his chest tightened.

 

 _And I say, oh, whoa, whoa, now hun, tell me why_  
_Why does every single little tiny thing I hold on, go wrong?  
_ _Yeah it all goes wrong, yeah_

  _And I say, oh, whoa, whoa, now babe, tell me why_  
_Why does every thing, every thing go wrong?_  
 

Immediately, he reacted, shifting into a motion of damage control as he attempted to quickly diffuse the bomb of whatever mood Rick was drowning himself in today. He carefully stepped backwards, closer to the exit, while keeping his sight on Rick. 

“Rick, please I-I–” he began to stumble over his words as his panicked thoughts fled from his mind.

“You-you you _what_?” Rick condescendingly mimicked, rising from the chair and crossing the room in a few effortless strides. He caught Morty’s hand as it wrapped around the door handle and forced his grip away from it, wringing fingers around the boy’s wrist with bruising pressure as he hissed another accusation towards him. Drunken spittle showered across Morty’s face as the redhead struggled to look away.

 

 _Love's got a hold on me, baby_  
_Feels just like a ball and chain_  
_Now, love's just dragging me down, baby, yeah  
_ _Feels like a ball and chain_

  _I hope there's someone out there who could tell me  
__Why the man I love wants to leave me in so much pain_

 

Rick tugged the teen’s wrist upward, pulling the boy into a thick wave of putrid breath that emanated like the insinuating vapors of his fermented anger. 

“I know you wanna go back,” he hissed into the redhead’s ear. “H-He fuck you as good as me? Wh-When you call our name?”

Although his heart was furiously pounding in warning against the wall of his chest, Morty remained calm, trying his best to analyze his situation. Rick shook him in his grip, spewing more fetid statements onto his skin.

“–Or do we all taste the same to you? Th-That why? That why you've been playing hard to get with me, Red-shirt? I need to remind you of how this works?”  

He was going to be hurt. Rick’s line of questioning was so loaded, and there was no way for Morty to answer without giving the man a reason to justify raising a hand to him. It wasn’t fair. _It wasn’t fair._ Morty looked Rick in the eyes with a dead expression as he opened his mouth to answer, bracing himself.

 

“I–”

 

His head reeled to the side as he lost all sense of hearing. A slight ringing sensation sounded in his eardrum, and his vision flared a sharp red. His head was then flung in the opposite direction, and, disoriented, he became aware that he was on the floor, trying to lift his weight against the dizziness, struggling to breathe. A hand fisted his hair, tugging him to his knees before fingers coiled around his throat, lifting his weight into the air.

A cry escaped as his body was thrown against the wall with a searing moment of hot, slicing pain, and his vision alarmingly flashed an angry static red a second time. He heard himself automatically apologizing through a choked whisper as Rick’s fingers constricted around his throat, suppressing his ability to breathe.

“You wanna go back?” He pressed his weight into the statement, punctuating it with threatening body language. “Too fuckin’ bad, Red-shirt, cause you’re not gonna do _shit_.”

Morty faintly scratched at Rick’s forearm, clawing at the grip that held him against the wall with increasing levels of pressure. Fuzzy black clouds began to lace the edges of his vision, and the room spun around him. Morty needed to do something before he lost consciousness.

He told himself that this Rick was more violent with Morty because he was already broken. Physical violence was a more effective form of control than the soft manipulation tactics that had stopped working on him long ago. He could too easily read into their intentions.

“You’re so fucking _easy_ , Red – you’ve already been fucked over by your Rick and that makes you an easy... fuckin’... lay. Think I won’t choke you until your vocal chords cave in? Until you're smart enough to get that? You think I won't add another layer of bruises to remind you?”

He locked gazes with the drunken man whose eyes were an insatiable, consuming abyss.  

“G-Grandpa Rick?”

He pleaded with a raspy voice, and in the moment where Rick’s grip slackened, and his expression faltered, Morty kicked as hard as he could. He wasn’t sure where, but he felt gravity release him to the floor, and the teen collapsed under his limbs, instinctively grabbing his own throat, gasping for air as he fought the dizziness, and tried to crawl away.

Rick had moved in front of the door, guarding it. He sank down onto the floor to join him.

As Morty attempted to push himself away, Rick caught him by the ankle, and began to rope the redhead towards him. In a panic, Morty reached out and caught a cord, pulling it from the small table, and reeled it toward him. Without thinking, he lifted the heavy piece of metal, and brought it down on Rick’s head, feeling it break into pieces in his grip.

Unsure if it had knocked Rick out, Morty spun onto his feet to scramble towards the bathroom door with the few precious seconds he had bought himself. He jammed a foot beneath the door to hold it closed, and reached behind the toilet to reveal the long metal pipe that he had previously hidden.

He barred it across the door, jamming it over the doorknob, in between another pipe and the radiator. This wasn’t the first time he had used it, but most of those instances were without Rick's knowledge. Sometimes, putting a bar across the door made him feel like he could breathe.

Morty hoped that Rick was too afraid of the cops getting called again to break down the door. He wasn’t supposed to be in the apartment with Morty. The cops never did much, but the property manager would evict them both.

Steadily, the sounds of the television set rose until it was blaringly loud, and Morty's chest seized in panic, recognizing its significance. The volume drowned out the sounds of Rick’s movements, and, with a sudden crack, a blunt force vibrated against the door, making him jump. Morty sat against the opposing wall pressing his foot against the door as it continually bent against the force of repeated blows. An angry voice shouted through the barrier.  

 

“You’re fucking asking for it, today, and you’re gonna fucking get it, Red-shirt!”

 

That had been his grandfather's record player. He swallowed the blood pooling in his mouth through clenched teeth, and placed a hand on his head where it pulsed with a distant, dull ache. When he pulled it away, he discovered that his fingers were smeared with blood. His adrenaline was too high to feel worst of the pain, but Morty knew that it was only a matter of time before it was all that he could feel.   

He trembled, exhaling a shaky breath, and reached for a towel, pressing it against his head to slow the bleeding.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _“You're really going to flip your lid over this one, Red! I got us something.”_  

_“Aw jeez, Rick!? You got something for me? What is it?”_

 

His grandfather knelt on the ground of their near-empty apartment and plugged the piece of technology into the wall, setting a small pile of cardboard artwork next to it. He pulled a giant black record from one of them and twirled it between two fingers with a smile.

 

_“It’s a turntable! The only thing that made a shitty situation worth it when I was your age.”_

 

He mounted the record, and gently set the needle into the groove. As it began to spin on its key, music filled the empty spaces between them, and the older man rose to his feet and held out an upward facing hand to Morty.

 

_“C’mon you little shit. Dance with me.”_

 

 

 _All of me, Why not take all of me  
_ _Can't you see, I'm no good without you_

 

Morty couldn’t help but smile at the cheesy atmosphere that the old music created. He gave a slight laugh before offering his hand to the older man, and Rick ran a thumb across his soft skin. 

Suddenly, in an honest, vulnerable gesture, his grandfather pulled the redhead into a tight embrace as they swayed in rhythm together.

Morty felt his lip quiver at the softness of the gesture that silently said everything between them.     

 

_“Look, I-I'm sorry about last night.”_

 

Rick hugged the teen more tightly, and Morty nodded into his chest in unspoken forgiveness, as tears welled in the corner of his eyes.  

 

_“I-I know you’ve been homesick. A-and adjusting to life on the Citadel can be rough, Red, I know that new situations can be intimidating. You’re lookin' around and it's all scary and different, but y'know... m-meeting them head-on, charging into 'em –that's how we grow as people. I'm no stranger to shitty situations, I deal with them all the time. but no matter what happens– I’ll always have you, and that's what makes this place worth it....we could have gone anywhere in the universe, but it doesn't matter. As long as I have you, it doesn't matter.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 _You took the best,  
_ _so why not take the rest?_

 

 

_Why not, take all of me?_

  
  


Something about watching the record player shatter over the skull of the person who looked just like his grandfather – about feeling his own warm blood flow like a sacrament that insistently clung to his skin, shattered something deep inside of Morty. Ripping away, for a moment, the wall of denial that Morty had built around everything.

His grandfather never would have wanted him to die. 

This Rick would kill Morty if he let him.

He wasn’t sure when he had started crying, but he hugged his messenger bag and continued to let his tears freely fall as the pounding on the door continued. He opened his bag, carefully removing R’s wooden Church box, and clutched it tightly against his chest.

Church had never been a physical location. It was a feeling, and it moved with him. It had followed him, even here, where, in this moment, he found its meaning in the box of R’s belongings. His bloody fingers stained the lacquered wood as they slid across the grainy surface.

And for a moment, the teen felt safe enough to be honest with himself.

There was a time when he used to fight back, but then he stopped doing anything at all because it only ever made things worse.

He couldn't remember exactly when he had stopped fighting back. At what point he decided that hoping for anything better than what he had was the most dangerous form of prayer. The moment of his honest self-awareness, in admitting that to himself, hurt worse than any pain that had ever been inflicted on him.

His body began to shudder as he grieved for his loss of self, understanding that, at some point, his passion had also been snuffed out at the hands of another. 

But the feeling of Church, whatever it was, had reignited it, and in the ecstasy of a single moment, glimpsing his life in its entirety set fire to his being.

All that really mattered was that he truly felt it.

Morty had always known he was broken, but for the first time, he felt the searing hot pieces of himself as he cried, remembering, as he grappled with the sharp edges of each one, that he was alive.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Love the Way You Lie (2010):** Rihanna told Access Hollywood that when Eminem approached her to be featured on the track, she felt a powerful connection with its lyrical content. The singer, whose domestic violence history with ex-boyfriend Chris Brown made headlines around the world, discussed her decision to collaborate with Eminem. "It's something that, you know, we have both experienced, you know, on different sides, different ends of the table...It just was authentic. It was real. It was believable for us to do a record like that, but it was also something that needed to be done and the way he did it was so clever. He pretty much just broke down the cycle of domestic violence and it's something that a lot people don't have a lot of insight on, so this song is a really, really powerful song and it touches a lot of people."
> 
>  **Ball and Chain (1967):** Originally recorded by a blues singer named Willie Mae "Big Mama" Thornton, who also recorded the original version of _Hound Dog._ The ball and chain is an image associated with prisoners, as a weighted ball attached to a chain would be shackled to an inmate's leg to keep him from escaping. In this song, Thornton relates the image to her man, who is keeping her down.  
>     
> A staple of her live performances, Janis Joplin sang it at the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967, launching her career, and also at Woodstock. Joplin's interpretation of this song solidified her reputation as an incredibly soulful performer who could handle the gnarliest of the blues. This fic very intentionally connects Music Morty with Janis Joplin’s music.  
>    
>  _“A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round, as one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames, No light, but rather darkness visible, Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe. Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace and rest can never dwell.”_
> 
> **Labcoat Activism on the Starry AU Citadel:** While most lifers on the Citadel lose their labcoats in favor of a new Ricksona, and use the term “Labcoat” to describe the tourist Ricks or vanilla Ricks living on the Citadel, many working class Ricks who are unable to create a unique identity revert back to their dimensional name as an intentional claiming of unique identity, and don the labcoat to declare that they are still Ricks, and as such, are just as valuable as every other Rick on the Citadel. 
> 
> While many Ricks have re-adorned their labcoat as a symbol of their freedom, the action can be interpreted as a very dark gesture by those on the Citadel. There is an implication that Citadel Ricks wear the labcoat when they have nothing left to lose. The labcoat then becomes a public demonstration of a Rick’s embracing of this idea.


	12. My Lover's The Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It was the single greatest act of love he ever imparted.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N: Big warning for sensitive content in this chapter.** Please take a minute to skim the general TW’s, and read the recap if you need. This chapter has a few explicit non-con scenes, but I would suggest that the more potentially triggering aspect of this chapter is the deep-dive exploration of emotional abuse and gaslighting, which culminate, in part, with some of those scenes.
> 
>  **General TWs:** Grooming, Psychological Manipulation, Underage, Rape, Physical Violence, Cycles of Abuse  
>   
>  Spoiler Summary Feature is Disabled. Click "Show Creator's Style" at the top of this page to activate. (Mobile Friendly)

  

 

 _And you got me, let go_  
_What you want from me?  
_ _And I tried to buy your pretty heart, but the price too high_

  _Baby you got me like oh, you love when I fall apart  
__So you can put me together, and throw me against the wall_  

 _Baby you got me like ah, woo, ah_  
_Don't you stop loving me (loving me)_  
_Don't quit loving me (loving me)  
_ _Just start loving me (loving me)_

 

It was no exaggeration to call his grandfather a God.

Because their meeting was one of cosmic proportions, and the very threads of Morty’s reality were spun by the advent which gifted him a universe, when he only ever expected a planet – to live out the soul-crushing mediocrity of a short existence on the dust of a single pale blue dot called Earth.

For that, Morty would always be grateful, regardless of the consequences.

Morty had always known that Rick had transformed him into someone whose identity would forever be inextricably intertwined into the fabric of his; the red string that joined them was meticulously, intentionally woven into every moment, every interaction, with such care and devotion, such attention to detail, that it was impossible to really see it up close. Morty could only ever fully glimpse it when he experienced it in reverse, trying to mentally unweave the fabricated patterns, stitch by stitch.

He was extremely careful in doing so, however, because dressing Morty in red was one of the greatest acts of love that his grandfather had ever imparted to him.

 

 _Oh, and babe I'm fist fighting with fire just to get close to you  
__Can we burn something, babe?_  

 _And I run for miles just to get a taste_  
_Must be love on the brain, that's got me feeling this way (feeling this way)  
__It beats me black and blue but it fucks me so good_  

 _And I can't get enough_  
_Must be love on the brain, yeah_    
_And it keeps cursing my name (cursing my name)  
__No matter what I do, I'm no good without you, and I can't get enough_

_Must be love on the brain_

 

“ _Everybody's_ a fuckin’ individual, Morty."

Rick waved him off with a dismissive hand and returned to work at his bench in the garage, but Morty protested. They had recently visited the Citadel, and Morty was extremely bothered by the idea of how replaceable he had seemed.

“All the other Mortys have a name. Why can't I have one that makes me unique?”

Rick sighed in irritation when it became clear that Morty wasn’t going to drop the topic of conversation. He rolled his eyes before reaching into the drawer of his bench, shuffling through its contents before pulling out a shirt that had been completely dyed with a mixture of Morty’s own and alien blood from a previous adventure. Rick had earlier saved it to run analysis, but he was done with it. He tossed it to the teen, who looked at it with confusion.

“Fine, whatever, you're Red-shirt Morty.”

Morty looked at Rick, still upset, and Rick let out a sigh before changing his tone and offering a smile.

“It's a good color on you. Red's your favorite, right?”

Morty nodded and smiled, because Rick knew so much about him.

Rick Sanchez had the power to elevate something so unwanted into something divine. It was more faded than it used to be, but Morty treated it with reverence.

Rick was the answer. The only presence in Morty’s life who could solve all of the teen’s problems, but he severely underestimated the power of literally being able to move the Earth and the stars. He was up too close to understand the effectiveness of being told that the most powerful being in the universe, a God, had wanted – _needed_ – Morty to be his only follower.

 

More than all of those things, however, Morty underestimated the power of his own desire to believe in him.

 

The most insidious thing about it was that such a power only worked because Morty chose to view Rick as someone who held an unquestionable, legitimate authority over him.

A lamb to the cosmic slaughter.

 

_“We're gonna go on even more adventures after that, Morty, and you're gonna keep your mouth shut about it – Because the world is full of idiots that don't understand what's important, and they'll tear us apart, but if you stick with me, I'm gonna accomplish great things, Morty, and you're gonna be part of them.”_

 

Eventually, the illusion faded and before he had even realized it, slowly, gradually, and through a series of small decisions that didn’t feel like he was giving up much of anything, Morty gave up everything, stitch by careful stitch.

Morty was about to head upstairs to his room, in an attempt to catch up on the past few day’s worth of homework. His grades had all dropped because he had missed so much school. In the last two months he had only attended seven hours. His father had told him that if he wanted to make it in this world, then he needed to compete twice as hard, and the teen was panicking at the number of makeup hours that implied. There was no way he would be able to catch up. Rick was unconcerned, however.

 

_“Jeez, Rick, in the time it took you to make this interdimensional cable thing, couldn't you have just, you know, helped me with my homework?”_

_“Eh, don't do your homework. Stay up late tonight with me. We’ll watch Ball Fondlers.”_

 

Rick smiled as he patted the spot on the couch next to him. Such small things. Morty didn’t need to feel anxious about such things if the smartest person he knew wasn’t.

 

Rick always told him that the Devil was in the details.

 

_“Homework is stupid. The whole point is to get less of it. School isn’t a place for smart people.”_

_“Are you saying you think I’m smart?”_

_“Anything is possible, Morty, but I'm saying you don't need school. Not when you have me.”_

 

Morty let him decide the seemingly innocuous things for him, because he wanted his grandfather to like him. He valued Rick’s thoughts and opinions and looked up to him with admiration.

Rick changed Morty's mind on small topics, expressing disappointment when Morty didn't share his views, or challenged his worldview. Morty regurgitated his ideas as if they were his own, for the reward of being able to indulge in the warm smiles of approval he gave. He wanted his grandfather’s approval more than anything.

 

_“He's my little helper. He needs to keep hanging out and helping me.”_

 

His grandfather kept interrupting his classes, and his parents attempted to intervene, but Rick’s influence extended to them as well. 

 

_“He has a special mind. He's like me– gonna be doing great science stuff later in his life. He's too smart for school.”_

_“Jerry, I don't want whatever's happening here to stop.”_  

_“Uh, maybe we overreacted. But he has to keep going to school.”_

_“Okay, Jerry. You drive a hard bargain, but what am I supposed to do? Say no? You-you really wear the pants around here. I just want you to know, between us, from now on, it's gonna be clear communication.”_

 

Eventually, Morty stopped going to school, because his grandfather had more important things to show him, and drug him across the universe on larger-than-life adventures. He gifted the teen with grandiose experiences that felt so far beyond anything Morty could have ever hoped to fathom. 

 

 _“_ _I need your help, Morty.”_

 

On adventures, his grandfather would create a very controlled atmosphere of intimacy between them.

Life felt unreal in his grandfather’s mesmerzing presence. Earth, and everything else in Morty's life dulled in comparison, and even though it had only been a short month, and the teen didn’t really know anything about his grandfather, He felt as if he had known him deeply, and for a long time. It was harder to imagine everyday life _without_ him.

Everything about his grandfather’s love was extraordinary, and Morty cherished that he had become the center of Rick’s obsessive attention. He needed Morty to trust him, plan every aspect of his future around him, follow him with unquestioning willingness.  

 

 

_“Morty, it's your bedtime in an hour. Don't stay up all night again.”_

 

Jerry had poked his head into the garage to enforce the rules of the household and Morty nodded. As his father shut the door behind him, Rick countered with a snicker that the garage technically wasn’t part of the household. Morty laughed with him as they planned, unspoken, to stay up late for another night.

Rick had always inspired Morty's trust, and had cultivated an intense emotional attachment. Late at night, while the rest of the world slept, Morty helped his grandfather work in the garage, and it was there that he would open up the most vulnerable parts of himself, and share with the older man things he told no one else, asking his grandfather to be the keeper of his secrets.

 

It was not in the reaches of the cosmos, but in the quiet of the garage where Morty had fallen in love.

 

With each vulnerability he trusted him with, Morty slipped closer to Rick’s gravitational pull. Before long, his grandfather understood him more intimately than anyone else, and as a result, Morty’s entire existence co-dependently revolved around him. It was simply easier to spend time around someone who he didn't have to explain himself to.

Morty never had a strong sense of self, and his grandfather had entered his life at a time when he was unsure of his place in the world and deeply impressionable. He never really knew who he was, and wanted, more than anything, Rick's offered promise to save him from himself.

When he was in his grandfather’s presence, he didn’t have to think about _his_ needs and wants– His brainwaves needed to only impress one person, and as Morty allowed his sense of self to burn away into nothing in Rick’s orbit, he truly believed the relationship which only further concealed him, was transforming him into a better person.

It was so much easier to cancel out his own self in favor of his grandfather’s.

 

_“What…? Rick? What’s going on?”_

 

Rick drunkenly stumbled into Morty's room late one night, spilling alcohol onto the teen’s bed as he climbed into it. Morty woke to find his hand being pressed against the warmth of his grandfather's exposed, swelling erection. The unmistakable, lonely stench of his grandfather's desperate addictions traveled from the mouth that was pressed, heavy, against Morty’s skin. He sighed a weighted groan leaving wet trails of drunken desire, into Morty’s ears, encouraging the teen with acrid breath. Alcohol poured freely over his chest, staining his shirt and mattress.

His grandfather, unaware, dropped the bottle to empty on the floor, and breathing heavily in arousal, lay hands on the teen as if he were imparting a sacred blessing.

 

_“Grandpa’s got you. Let me take care of you.”_

 

Morty kept his secrets too.  

 

“ _You're a good kid, Red.”_  

 

His grandfather blacked out on top of him, and Morty held the suffocating weight of his new name.   

 

***

 

  

_“Together, we're gonna do all kinds of wonderful things, Morty. Just you and me. The outside world is our enemy. We're the only friends we've got – It's just Rick and Morty. Rick and Morty and their adventures. Rick and Morty forever and forever for 100 years.”_

Exploring the expanse of the universe, and facing near-death experiences on so many adventures; witnessing the destruction of entire worlds so that his single, individual life could be preserved because the smartest man in the universe commanded it; these experiences had changed Morty, and he grimly understood there was no going back.

His only confidant was the same man who had chosen the teen to bear witness to his works. Rick was the only one who could truly understand how broken Morty felt after surviving such experiences, because he had shared that survival. Rick was the only person with whom he could share his existential crisis. 

Rick, truly, was the only person who could understand it. Morty was the only person, who could understand him.

The older man kissed his forehead in an absolute gesture, and shared that he was proud of Morty for bravely following him into each new adventure, and it made the teen feel whole, but before long. Rick was shouting orders, expecting Morty's unquestioning obedience. It wasn’t his fault for needing Morty to do things exactly how he needed them to be done, it was Morty’s fault for being too dumb to do it right.

He was never enough.

Morty couldn’t be trusted to think for himself, because Rick loved his grandson too much to see him get killed on an adventure. Morty understood that f he wanted to continue to travel the universe with him, which was to say, if he didn't want this extraordinary life taken from him, then the teen needed to follow his grandfather's command.

Morty couldn't bear the thought of returning to a normal life, not with the torturing knowledge of what untouchable ideas lay beyond the stars. Not with the idea of Rick traveling the cosmos without him.

 _“Yeah, your voice is annoying, but i-if you ask me, it’s also your best quality,”_ Rick gave Morty unsolicited advice on the teen’s opinions, thoughts, and appearances, _“You'd look much better as a permanent redhead, Morty...I could, eh...change your genes?”_

Morty looked at this grandfather, who'd been staring at him with unblinking, piercing eyes in a way that always drew attention to Mortys flaws, which were far too visible under the gaze of the smartest man in the universe. Morty valued Rick’s opinions, however, because they were, in the very sense of the word, facts. Irrefutable in Morty's eyes, because they held the power to inspire the teen to believe in them as indisputable truths. 

He wanted his grandfather’s approval more than anything, because he spoke with such conviction that his words were absolute.

 

_“Sure Grandpa Rick, if that’s what you want.”_

_“What do you want?”_

 

Rick offered his grandson a choice, and Morty had been naive enough to believe he ever had one. In that moment, however, the teen thought everything of his grandfather for considering him in such a way, and wanted nothing more than to make the person who had given him _so much_ to live for happy, even if what he had to give in return was near-meaningless in comparison. 

_“I want what you want, Grandpa Rick.”_

His grandfather wanted Morty to give him everything.

 

_"I want you so much, Red."_

When the man lifted Morty against the passenger’s seat in his ship, and pressed their bodies together, Morty followed his lead with unquestioning obedience, and his grandfather loved him in absolutes. He called the forever-redhead beautiful, and perfect as he kissed hickeys into his skin with bruising force, rewarding the teen with acts of intimacy and love as he threaded fingers through crimson-stained hair.  

 

_“I’m not a good person Red. I’m gonna ruin you.”_

 

Sometimes alcohol could not sate Rick's feelings of guilt, and he drunkenly revealed to his grandson a carefully curated vulnerability. 

Morty was the only person who could offer Rck forgiveness for the secrets locked within his heart, and it made Morty feel important to him, powerful even, that Rick had given him such carefully administered power to absolve the older man’s guilt, and accept his flaws – of which, loving Morty too much was always the worst.

Morty hugged his grandfather and, with the only power he had to wield, told the older man that the broken, dirty, poisoned, battered pieces of him were wanted, desired even. 

 

There was something symbolically cleansing about sex with his grandfather.

 

Morty was in love, and it was as intoxicating as the fetid liquid that sloshed within the metal of Rick’s flask.

It was an addiction as powerful as the drunken sweet nothings his grandfather poured into him with whispered breaths of fire. From his lips, he trailed the stagnant smell of mustard gas and roses across the surface of Morty's skin, and while under his influence, the teen wept as he confessed the words held closest to the suffocating weight of his heart.

His grandfather held him close and, in the same liquor-laced breath, continued to press kisses and hands like miracles into Morty's brokenness, making him feel whole.  

 

_“I love you too, Red”_

 

Rick was his best friend.

Rick was his only friend.

 

Rick cursed Morty’s name as he thrust inside of him, spilling his entire self into the teen before Morty had been able to fully comprehend the self that had been sacrificed.

Nobody existed on purpose, however, and nobody belonged anywhere. The only thing that ever truly mattered was his deistic lover and savior, who could take every moment of pain away, who knew Morty’s heart’s deepest wishes. Who could fulfill them with a wave of his authoritative hand, and a press of his commanding lips.

 

Rick's omniscient presence in his existence was the only answer he’d ever needed.

 

***

 

_“What the fuck is wrong with you! Are you really that stupid, Red?!”_

 

His grandfather had given Morty permission to be flawed and human, only to later dismiss him for being so broken.

 

It made Morty want him more.

He needed to return to his grandfather's good graces, and he tried even harder to receive the love and affection he'd been given, confused to why he had lost it. He begged his grandfather to tell him what he did wrong.

 

_“You know what you did.”_

_“You know, uh, you were right. I’m sorry. I’m doing my best. I'll do better.”_

 

Morty lied, and in an apology for nothing, he apologized for everything, because he wanted his grandfather's acceptance and forgiveness more than he needed the air in his lungs.

Rick suggested that they bring Summer with them on an adventure, and Morty watched as his grandfather intentionally, and pointedly cared for her more than he had ever cared for him.

 

_“Grandpa Rick, I got...I got hurt on that last adventure too.”_

_“Stop making shit up cause you want me to pay attention to you.”_

 

When Morty started to pull away his grandfather treated him like he was special again, for a little while at least.

Then, when Morty started to pull away on purpose, because he wanted his grandfather to remind him, Rick taught him a lesson and disappeared in his ship without warning, returning a week later. The teen ran hysterically, back into his arms, and apologized for forgetting that Rick knew everything. Morty was stupid to ever think that he could deceive him.

 

Rick loved Morty when he wanted to, on his own terms. Morty needed to be grateful for what he was given.

 

His grandfather drew attention to the things he _knew_ his grandson was self conscious about, and cruelly joked around them, lashing out at the teen from behind a wall of authority and sarcasm. Then, he encouraged their family to do the same. Everyone fell in line and followed the actions of the older man, making the teen constantly feel dumb, unattractive, and naive. 

Morty couldn't fault them for wanting to remain ignorant, however. To not think about it. 

 

_“All I’m saying Red, is that if they even liked you, they would make time for you. I barely have a reason to care and even I noticed. They haven’t even figured out I’m fucking you – Eh, take that back, kid, probably that they just don’t care.”_

 

Morty had always suspected that something had been wrong with him, and his grandfather validated it, reminding him that on Earth, he was a sick creep for wanting his grandfather, who, the older man insisted, was only ever giving the redhead what he wanted. Late one night, he fucked Morty on the living room couch, whispering white noise into him while the blare of the flickering television spilled over their secrets.

 

 _“You wanna get caught with Grandpa’s dick up your ass, Red? Want everyone to see what you’ve been letting me do to you? You think they even care?”_  

 

He heard his parents arguing late one night, in quiet hushed tones in their bedroom, and the abnormality of the way that they argued frightened him deeply. He only caught a few small phrases as their voices momentarily climbed.

 

_“...And what does a rapist look like exactly, Beth!?”_

_“Jerry, just because that happened to you doesn’t mean my dad–”_

_“–Beth, please, just once, listen to me...”_

_“Stop filling Morty with your own insecurity! You're gonna turn him into more of you!”_

 

Long ago, Rick had convinced Morty that he was the only one who ever truly knew him. He condescendingly criticized the Smith family, to get the teen to question their motives.

Jerry had most persistently interfered with Rick and Morty’s adventures, and in turn, his grandfather humiliated him to the point that Morty and Summer wanted nothing to do with their father, and Beth doubted, then eventually divorced him.

He incessantly antagonized Jerry until the man gave an ultimatum to his wife, and Rick watched with a smug, shit-eating grin as Jerry wagered everything he had built with Beth in near two decades of their marriage against the prodigal father, only to still come up short.

In that way, Beth was closer to Morty than the teen wanted to admit. Rick held a certain undeniable amount of influence over those he cared most about. Watching Jerry get cast out of _Rick’s_ family, served as proof to remind the teen that Jerry had never been worthy of his grandfather's absolute love. He didn't deserve to be part of the Smith family.

 

_“No more dad, Red. He didn’t know how to keep his mouth shut– tried to turn me in and I made him go away. I’ve replaced him as the defacto patriarch of my family. I just took over the family, Red.”_

 

His grandfather grew intentionally confident, and sloppy, without Jerry.

Beth interrupted the pair one night as his grandfather loudly fucked Morty into the mattress of the teen's darkened bedroom. Morty flinched at the streak of light falling onto his face, and turned away from her in shame. Rick intentionally ignored her as the door further opened. She forced her voice into the small room to make her presence known.

 

_“Dad? What are you doing?”_

_“Nothing he doesn't want, sweetie. Y-you think, I'm the one who fucked him up like this?”_

 

It wasn’t Beth's fault. Summer was unplanned, but Morty was unexpected. Unwanted. A mistake, that Rick had exploited and leveraged to his advantage at every turn. He belched into another push of his hips, and Morty clenched his eyes shut at the absolute words. He couldn’t look at her as Rick continued to demonstrably thrust into him, and whimpered in protest, feeling his grandfather further harden inside of him at the presence of his grandson’s visible discomfort.

 

It was his fault.

 

She’d never been able to accept Morty. He was too much like Jerry, and Rick’s entire purpose in intentionally getting caught was to teach Morty a lesson he never wanted the teen to forget: that she’d only ever seen her father in that moment.

The next day, his mother with a jealous glint in her eyes, asked Morty to defend her father's actions, fearful that he might leave her again.  

 

_"Tell me you started this, Morty, because Dad's always been smarter than this."_

 

Morty was nothing to her. Had never been anything to her, and like Jerry, even if he wagered everything, she would always be better off without him.

Rick was the only one who had ever truly cared about him, and Morty turned against his sister when she dismissed his feelings toward his grandfather as valid. She was much more livid than her mother because she inherited all of Rick's best traits.

She wasn't Rick though, and she couldn't understand. She could never understand.

Rick would make her go away if she couldn't understand.

 

_“Red, wanna run away with me?”_

 

Another choice. Morty had fallen so hopelessly and unconditionally in love that he was blind. All he could see was the red of a rose-tinted worldview that his grandfather had cloaked him in.

 

_“Let’s leave this piece of shit planet behind. Get a whole fresh start, Red. Create a whole fresh start.”_

 

He took the hand of the man he loved.

He would have followed him anywhere.

 

He choose to survive.

 

*******

 

 _“Wh-wherever you find people with heads up their asses someone wants a piece of your grandpa, Red. And a lot of versions of me on different timelines have the same problem, on the Citadel, you have a l~ot of Ricks with their heads up their ass.”_  

 

Adjusting to life on the Citadel was rough at first, but in the end it wasn’t so hard. The strangest part was living in a world surrounded by alternate versions of himself. Morty was fascinated by the endless possibilities his life had taken him on. He nervously scrubbed fingers through his red hair and looked down at his shirt, thankful that his grandfather had made him unique. 

Rick murdered a version of himself that dared to call Morty _exotic_ on the first day.

 

_“I just didn’t trust that Rick. Didn't like the way he looked…looked at you. I just want you to be safe.”_

 

Morty quickly began to make friends with his collective selves, but his grandfather did not adjust to life on the Citadel as easily, growing paranoid, increasingly jealous, and possessive. He justified his behavior by telling Morty that he knew himself, and that Ricks couldn’t trust any Ricks on the Citadel. 

 

_“Red, what have I told you about following my rules?”_

 

He required the teen to ask for his permission to go anywhere, and his grandfather required him to constantly check in. If Morty couldn't recount every Rick or Morty he'd interacted with on any day, Rick accused his grandson of hiding something, and fucking around.

Morty’s desperation to make his grandfather happy only allowed the older man to further mistreat him without fear of consequence, but eventually Morty threatened to leave. 

 

 _“_ _Y-You know what, Rick? That’s it! I-I’m done with this…insane adventure! I quit! I’m out! I wanna go home!”_

_“Whoa whoa whoa!” Rick grabbed Morty’s shoulder to catch him from leaving their apartment._

_“Come on, Morty! D-D-Don’t be like that! The Citadel is a crazy and chaotic place! You’re gonna get your dumb ass killed.”_

_His grandfather always acted like Morty was overreacting, like he was always “the scientist” – the rational, realistic one. That it was always Morty who didn’t have control of his emotions._

_Morty slapped Rick’s hand away._

_“No, **you’re** the one that’s crazy and chaotic! This was supposed to be – I dunno, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this!”   _  

His grandfather had given him the illusion of choice, and Morty had always believed he was following his own free will, but in an environment where all the choices had been predetermined, no choice he made was ever going to be truly his. 

_“Oh yeah, Red. Yeah, th-that’s real easy to say from the sidekick position. You wanna– wanna take the reins, then we’ll talk about how simple and fun it is.”_

 

The first time he hit Morty, he didn’t apologize, but he tried to sober up for a short while, and cut back.

 

_“If I didn’t love you I wouldn’t have hit you, Morty – trying to– Trying to knock some fucking sense into you. That kind of attitude from a Morty on the Citadel is gonna get you killed.”_

_“I’m sorry Rick, I’m doing my best. I’ll do better.”_

 

Rick had brought Morty to the Citadel telling him that their relationship would be accepted. The truth, cold and uncaring as the void, was because what a Rick did with his Morty on the Citadel was nobody’s business but their own. Moving to the Citadel meant that there was no one left to interfere.

Morty had blindly been led by his grandfather's desire, because he wanted what Rick wanted, and as Morty unraveled his experiences in hindsight, he had followed him, headfirst, into their most authentic adventure. A carefully curated physical, financial and psychological trap. 

Rick changed after they had arrived on Citadel, and when Morty confronted him, his grandfather heartily laughed. He had always been the same person, and Morty’s perception of him was the only thing that had really changed. It was the Morty's fault for being too dumb to see it. 

 

_“The whole point of having a dog is to feel superior, Red.”_

 

He boasted to Morty. He was protecting his own interests, and was proud of his own ability to effortlessly manipulate the teen. That, as a God, all Ricks were entitled to such a relationship with their Mortys, one that was completely in his favor, regardless of how unfair. 

Following their conversation, Morty fell firmly into denial, believing that it was the presence of other Ricks who had brought out the worst aspects of his grandfather: his toxic narcissism, sense of entitlement, crippling loneliness, and horrible self-esteem. 

  

He owned Morty, and the redhead treasured that he was a the human garbage that belonged to him. 

 

Sometimes Morty looked at his bruises, believing that even they were laid with care. His grandfather moved his hand and birthed stars like flowering nebulas into the darkness of his existence, and stargazing into their depths made Morty feel alive. He searched for meaning in the works of his grandfather’s hands as they pulled away his red fabric with authority, to reveal a truth as endless as his own salvation. 

He found constellations in the white-hot points of bruising fingertips as if he were charting the stars to navigate his soul, escaping into their mythic narratives. He called the name that set his existence on fire from within and invited himself to burn.

 

_“That’s right baby, fucking worship me.”_

 

It was the kind of blind worship Morty gradually slipped into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what he chose to see, without ever being fully aware of what he was doing. Until one day, quite suddenly, he woke up in an imprisonment so total that he had not even been aware that he had been confined. Insignificant and powerless. Entrapped in a contorted life with another that was everything he had convinced himself he wanted. 

And in that single moment of honesty, Morty saw everything for what it was: something he no longer had any power to fix, but something he didn’t want to fix. It was all he had left. It was everything. There was nowhere in the universe to go, and the risk of leaving Rick for a potentially better life did not outweigh the comfort of familiarity.  

 

Morty could choose how to live his life on the Citadel, but only ever within the carefully controlled pathways that his grandfather had established for him. 

In a linear existence which unfolded at each predetermined choice, he choose to survive.

 

_“Quit your bitching. I was only knocking you around, Red.”_

 

Morty watched as his grandfather grow bored with his inventions, and instead attempted to slow his thoughts with Triple X. When the teen grew depressed. Rick grew angry for having been made to witness something that made him feel guilty, and he chased his guilt with alcohol, lashing out at the teen for being the source.

 

_“Are you even trying to be happy here?”_

_“...I wish you killed me instead of bringing me here.”_

_“-Wasn't asking for your thoughts, Morty."_

 

Rick drank more on the Citadel than he ever had in their home dimension, and his grandfather's self-hatred grew so intense that, simultaneously, Rick grew incapable of admitting guilt or expressing shame. His natural reflex was to blame Morty for everything, while refusing the idea that there was ever any problem with himself. 

 

_“Y-Yeah, don’t forget you’re on the Citadel – nobody cares about Mortys. If you’re not happy here, you only have yourself to blame.”_

 

In order to combat his feelings of inferiority, and unworthiness, Rick needed Morty to remain by his side and continue to see him as a God. He needed the sense of superiority that came at the cost of continuously tearing Morty down.

 

 _“Where's the portal gun, Rick?”_  

_“It's gone, Red. Y-you think I would have stayed on this piece of shit with you this long if I could have left? I told you there was no turning back.”_

 

That’s when their fights began in earnest. Morty threatened to leave, and started to forget why he ever wanted to be with Rick. His grandfather reminded him.

 

_“You belong to me. I own you.”_

 

He dragged Morty by a fistfull of hair into their bedroom and, for the first time, violently forced himself on the teen, wanting every second of the intruding experience painfully emblazoned in his memory, and as Morty sobbed and endlessly screamed into the room at the hot, ripping, pain, the older man’s sour breath encouraged him.

 

_“You wanna leave? Wanna leave me? If that’s what you want, then apparently this is all you’re good for, Morty.”_

 

Morty felt his grandfather’s burning flesh twitch in ecstasy in response to the sound of his distressed pleas. Rick stopped thrusting to hold his body still as they pointedly listened for nothing. No one was going to save Morty, not on the Citadel. Rick laughed in mockery of the boy's display of emotion, and as the teen’s sobs fell silent and his body stilled in resignation, his grandfather resumed using him without a hint of mercy. 

He pressed lips against Morty’s skin, and expressed himself inside of the redhead's flesh, imparting a sacred blessing. Then, held Morty close in the aftershocks of his ecstasy, whispering promises, like prophecy to the boy, that there was no one else but him. 

Aside from the silent trembling, his grandfather left Morty’s body motionless, alone with the pain that throbbed deep inside of him. He locked the door of their small bedroom behind him until the teen was ready to remember what he had forgotten.

The salty fluid clawed against the eviscerated walls of his flesh, and radiated like flames into his existence.  

 

_“I-I’m s-sorry, G-g-grandpa Rick.”_

 

Morty’s broken voice choked out words in apologetic pieces that caught like thorns in his throat, and when his grandfather finally unlocked the door, he sobbed into the older man’s arms, promising in raspy phases of devotion to never forget his love again. 

It was only after experiencing such violence from such loving hands that he was able to fully appreciate their gentle touch. 

Rick loved Morty on his own terms. In a desperate panic to have the small amount of freedom his grandfather had been willing to give, Morty worshiped him for giving it, and was rewarding wrapped in Rick’s loving embrace and made whole again.

The comparison of knowing of how painful his love _could_ be, elevated how pleasurable his love now was to even more intoxicating levels than before, and the lesson of seeing his grandfather transform, was that Morty could _choose_ the way in which his grandfather loved him, and he needed to be loved by the person he knew Rick could be.   

That was the only freedom he truly had. 

His grandfather was a God. Equal parts loving and abusive, and Morty loved and worshiped him with equal parts fear and awe.

He choose to survive. 

 

*******

 

 

 

_“I took out some Morty insurance today.”_

 

Rick escalated the violence, at first, to gauge Morty’s reaction. He demonstrated new inventions and weapons, explaining to the teen, in detail, exactly how they could kill _–_ but they were always a thinly veiled message for Morty.

Even when Rick pressed the tip of an anti-matter blaster into the flesh of his temple, Morty didn’t think anything abnormal about it. He never once thought of himself as being in a toxic co-dependent relationship. He had always seen himself as a source of strength and support for his grandfather, the brilliant, lonely person who he’d fallen unconditionally in love with.

 

_“I should just replace you.”_

_“When was my entire life ever worth more than the fluid in your gun?”_

 

Morty had come to know his grandfather as much as his grandfather had come to know him, and his first real leverage of his own survival was in knowing that his grandfather couldn’t kill him. That, somewhere deep down, Rick had become addicted to Morty’s love, and without the worship which transformed him into a God, his grandfather was nothing.

Morty needed his grandfather as much as his grandfather needed him.

His tongue twisted and grew thorns at the revelation. The most insidious thing about his transformation was that such a power worked only because Morty continued to view his grandfather as someone who held an unquestionable, legitimate authority over him, and the torch of his own gaslighting, had burned itself out into a warped sense of entitlement to his abuser. 

Morty truly believed himself to be the only person in the multiverse who had the power to love and follow _his_ Rick. 

He had become his own higher power, if only to save himself.

 

When Rick returned to their apartment looking for an excuse to be violent, and Morty waited for a reason to outlet every pent up emotion that he had bottled. He wasn’t sure at what point he began to love to hate his grandfather. He blamed him for everything, but despite how twisted his emotions had become, he continued to burn for his grandfather’s love, in whatever form he could find it. The first time Morty punched Rick, the man smiled wickedly, then chuckled as his face rotated back to lock eyes with him, smoothing a hand over his jawline, impressed with Morty's right of passage.

 

_“Big tough guy all of a sudden. You know what? That was all a test, Morty. Just an elaborate test to make you more assertive.”_

 

 _There was never any fucking test._ Morty clenched his fist and wondered when Rick's illusions, woven into words of manipulation, had stopped working. When he realized that Ricks violent words had only ever been filled with empty threats.

 

_“You’d be nothing without me.”_

 

At some point, Morty had fully understood how broken he truly was. He no longer had the capacity to love anyone else, because he had given Rick everything. 

 

_I told you, don’t think about it, Red. Once the gears start turning they don't stop.”_

 

It was so much easier to think of his grandfather as a God, because thinking of him in such extraordinary terms made it less real.

 

_“You don't want me, Rick! You want the person who loved you so much that you didn't have to love them back!”_

 

Morty wanted to continue to think of Rick as unrealistically as possible, to fetishize the extraordinary, because seeing his grandfather reduced to the scale of human was so much harder.

 

_"I hate you. I hate us both."_

He grieved for the unrealistic person he'd lost, whose love had been more real than anything he had ever experienced.

He grieved, because even a God could also be human.

 

Morty cursed his grandfather's name, wishing that the scientist could still save them. Hoping that he might still have the answers, but eventually, Morty grew smart enough to realize that Rick never had any answers to begin with. 

He knew not to expect anything more from Rick, but he continued to worship the exegesis of his grandfather’s existence through rose-tinted glasses, needing to believe in something greater than himself. His blind faith smelled rosy and saccharine, and wept through the crimson-stained glass of his being, the glowing light keened through fragmented cracks for what had once been alive.  

Because, despite everything, he loved his grandfather, a God who stitched himself into the fabric of Morty’s existence. Who held together the fibers of his being at the very wounds he created, and made them whole.

 

_“I know you fucking hate me, Red, and I love it all the same.”_

 

They blamed each other. But, on the Citadel, each other was all they had, and like layers of stitches running over the same reopened wounds, their arguments sutured them together.

 

It was how they made love.

 

He choose to survive.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Morty’s Rose-Tinted Glasses Disclaimer:** In this fic, Morty is a victim of pervasive forms of abuse, and even as this chapter is told from his perspective, and carries a certain level of self-awareness, Morty is still an unreliable narrator who heavily romanticizes his thoughts and reflections when they involve his grandfather, and he will continue to do so. This fic is gonna explore this idea more as it progresses.
> 
>  **The Smell of Mustard Gas and Roses:** This is a nod to one of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut. This motif/phrase is from _Slaughterhouse 5_. The imagery is referencing the traumatic experience of war, specifically burning bodies which had just been bombed. Contextually, it was a phrase used to describe a drunkard’s breath, but with a heavily romanticized tone that correlates the meaning to that of war and traumatic experience. I really thought that it was a beautiful metaphor to use for Morty and his grandfather, because TMTC very much plays with the theme of fire and trauma. Vonnegut’s purpose in using repetitive, specific imagery and phrasing is to connect ideas/scenes, to keep the focus on those ideas. This is something you may recognize in my writing style, and it’s a total love letter to Vonnegut.
> 
>  **Canon-Not-Canon Phrases:** Nearly every statement Rick says in this chapter (aside from a few obvious deviations) is a direct or slightly altered quote from the show. Of course, the context of these phrases changes their meaning greatly, and I cranked my own intended meaning in this fic right up to 11, but the intention was to use actual dialogue in the show as a lens to show how toxic the canonical characters can be. 
> 
> **Love on the Brain (2016):** The lyrical content left fans wondering if Rihanna was referencing her tumultuous relationship with Chris Brown, who left her with visible injuries on February 8, 2009, after an argument escalated into physical violence and was highly publicized. She wanted the song to be old school – a mix between Prince and Al Green. The slower time signature gives it a feeling of nostalgia, with a timeless and soulful feel to it.
> 
> R often relates the idea of love to a drug, and the themes of the song fit perfectly with Morty’s world tinted worldview about being in an abusive relationship, and how addicted he is to it.
> 
>  **Transference, and intentional similarities between R, Morty’s grandfather, and Ricks:** This fic intentionally contrasts moments that are unsettlingly similar between R and Morty’s grandfather, to illustrate the emotional paranoia and confusion that follows many abusive relationships. The idea of transference is an interesting concept to explore on the Citadel, because we are dealing with iterations of the same hypothetical character, and Morty is constantly comparing the multiple versions for similarities and differences. When considering Morty’s attraction to Ricks in general, it questions how much of it is due to these similarities, and his grandfather’s grooming, and how much of it is Morty’s own decision-making. This fic is gonna dig into these ideas more as the fic progresses.


	13. Worship in The Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ricks hated themselves. R hated Ricks. Logically, he didn’t really see the difference._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** We are officially at the halfway point of this story! **A BIG upfront trigger warning for this one and the next few chapters:** This chapter is the tipping point of the entire story, and this and the next few chapters are going to be the darkest in the fic. It is physically and emotionally explicit, and our characters won’t find resolution until around chapter 18. Our characters are gonna fuck up hard in this one, so please treat it with caution, and if you are sensitive to the themes in this fic, please glance at the General TW’s and/or read the spoiler summary. 
> 
> **General TWs:** Physical violence, non-consensual kissing, dissociation, flashbacks of childhood abuse, consciousness instability, fist fight, emotional dysregulation, self-destructive sabotage, non-con (though, if you really wanted to push it, you might be able to see it as a _re~ally_ fucked up form of dubcon), forced orgasm, PTSD episode, triggered traumas, more disassociation, really complicated emotions shitting all over the place.  
>    
>  Spoiler Summary Feature is Disabled. Click "Show Creator's Style" at the top of this page to activate. (Mobile Friendly)

R sighed a steady stream of smoke against the window of his shop, imagining that the moving white wisps of his breath were the patterns of clouds on Earth.

The only cloud-like forms that existed on the Citadel were found outside of it, and the large gaseous masses appeared, creeping through the deep-space void of the cosmos as gravity set their obfuscating currents in motion. Today, through the artificial forever-blue skies, R caught a glimpse of stars cutting through, and the morning brimmed with the lyricism of negative possibility. 

It had been three days since he had refused Morty.

Three days since Morty hadn’t shown up for Church.

Three days since Morty promised R that he would come back.

R lifted the glass piece to his mouth to tornado out another deep hit of smoke, listlessly pushing it into the lackluster sky as quickly as he had inhaled it.

 

Morty wasn't coming back.

  
  


 

 _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_

 _All your life_  
_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_

 _Blackbird singing in the dead of night_  
_Take these sunken eyes and learn to see_

 _All your life_  
_You were only waiting for this moment to be free_

 _Blackbird fly, blackbird fly_  
_Into the light of the dark black night_

 

He played a Beatles song across his store and dedicated it to him like a form of prayer, hoping it would find him, wherever he had ended up.

Morty was a songbird, flying away into the glass barrier of the Citadel, all the while believing he was free. He’d been smart enough to get away from R, but in the Citadel there was nowhere to go.

R set his pipe down, and continued to stargaze through summer daylight, bitterly perusing the possibility that if Morty _could_ throw himself at the illusion of the sky with enough force, he'd find _some_ form of escape– by staining crimson patterns on the glass walls.

Despite his best efforts to remind himself of the abnormality of his world, the presentation of superficial sunlight _had_ become normal for the record store owner. Similarly, R’s thoughts had normalized themselves into a pattern of complacent comfort – _Rick-Porquería._

Reluctantly, he understood that he had come to prefer the quiet unchanging life of routine that had consumed him on the Citadel.

 

It was all he would ever have.

 

It was the kind of blind worship R had gradually slipped into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what he chose to see, without ever being fully aware of what he was doing.

The irony, found within his own contradictory lifestyle, was that the self-governing expectation R held himself to, as a Rick, was that of making exceptional choices – while he knowingly labored to control a series of inconsequential decisions surrounding his own existence.  

When he thought of Morty, however, he dared to wear dangerously rose-tinted glasses, and hope against such certainty. R was terrified of the days that he felt such a way because, while passively reminiscing the idea of dimensional homesickness, he had begun to fantasize ceaselessly of his own oblivion – A forgotten hope of escape.

The very idea of a decision was a kind of perpetual torture for R because, ultimately, everything was reduced to a choice between the two indistinguishable ideals of hate and love, and the ever-present dark euphoria of R’s thoughts swirled in absolute chaos, promising that, regardless, he was virulent. Eventually everyone either left or suffered at his presence

Deep down, he wanted to believe that Morty would find something better than R’s collective self.

Even deeper down, he wanted Morty to come back.

There were no songbirds in the Citadel, R passively acknowledged, as his quiet contemplations meandered through his somber, nostalgic high.

Weed often helped him to recall, in lurid detail, the numerous small things he missed about Earth.

 

_The ever-present conversational music of songbirds that flickered into existence like thought._

_The sound of sweetly falling rain as it danced against the tin pieces of his record store to the cadence of thunder and clap of lightning._

_The steady, mellow hum of wind caressing swaths of grass and shaping clouds with its pulsing breath._

_The smooth sustained notes of water returning ever-homeward to the Earth’s ocean, and the subharmonic vibration of the planet as it burned beneath the Milky Way to feel the gentle kiss of the sun's warmth – Starlight traveling for eight minutes at lightspeed to harmonize everything it touched._

 

There was something so indescribably human about its overtone and, ultimately, the thing R missed most about Earth was the phenomenology of its song.

It wasn’t until R had experienced life on the Citadel that he had come to understand, with an acute sense of awareness, how meaningful such precious and fleeting moments were. Earth was changing with each passing moment, because death was the song of life.  

A human life without such music was a mistake, the record store owner concluded, and R’s life on the Citadel without Music Morty... He sighed and bitterly mumbled to himself as he exhaled another stream of smoke, watching it collide against the glass window.

“Everything under the sun is in tune, but it’s fuckin’ eclipsed by the moon.”

In the end R was only poignantly reminded that he was not an exception. He was just like every other Rick: too self-interested where it really mattered, and deep down, not wanting any aspect of his life to change course, even for a single day.

Even deeper down, his collective selves shared a secret sermon in the silence of their self-hating, sacrosanct existence: Its hymn, a eulogy of futility and inevitability.

In the face of making a self-aware choice of consequence that would break R free of the default gravitational orbit of being deeply and literally self-centered on the Citadel, R, in the ultimate expression of self, denied himself.

“You never deserved someone else’s love, especially his.”

All R had done was treat Morty with decency and respect – like a human being – and the teen had acted as if the record store owner had gifted him the universe. It wasn't surprising to R, that the boy had suddenly claimed to have fallen in love with him, offered his body to him – his entire sense of self-worth reduced, once again, to how a single individual saw him.  

The stoner's frown deepened, irritated as he considered the kind of experiences such a reaction implied, but his brow furrowed when he considered how _stupid_ his own loneliness had made him, because R had wanted to believe, for more than a passing moment, that it _had_ been something more than Morty's shitty fucking baseline.

 

_“–It’s okay Dad... I know you didn’t mean it.”_

_“I forget you’re still just a kid, Blue– forget my strength.”_

 

_R felt his father’s truth with quiet acceptance. He never meant to hurt him, and he always apologized afterwards. R always forgave him when he did. The shapeshifting phrases he had defended himself with in place of “I'm sorry” had come to mean so much more than the contours of the word’s surface._

 

_“I just– lost my temper.”_

_“Be a man, Blue, and quit moaning like a- like a little bitch. I-I didn't even hit you that hard.”_

_“I’m gonna change, I’m gonna be better. I’m gonna fix this.”_

_Richard was a single father, trying to do his best to raise a child he never wanted, and to love him the only way he knew how._

  
  
  


_Don’t think about it._

  
  
  


The store bell rang an excited, urgent chime from being forced open much too quickly, interrupting R from his well-worn thought processes.

“R!”

If there were deeper truths and meanings about R’s existence to be revealed, he believed their songs would filter through the things he loved; the mellifluous single note of his name rang through the sky, and warmly harmonized with the hopeful beat of his heart.

R followed its music and saw him.

“...Morty?”

 

 

As the record store owner took in the image of the boy standing in front of him, his decision-making processes fell away and his fight-or-flight responses swiftly took over his body and mind.

Morty was breathing heavily. One of his eyes was wide with fear. The other was nearly swollen shut. His rose-tinted glasses were missing, unable to be held by the swollen face, and a snarled mess of blood caked his unkempt hair, staining it a darker shade alongside the shirt he wore. The boy was barefoot, his usual jacket and messenger bag forgotten. R caught a series of fingerprints on his arms and wrists, and Morty was carefully holding the bend in his elbow, as if it hurt to even move in the slightest.

But the most unsettling thing was that, despite his physical condition, he wasn’t crying. R couldn’t help but wonder when Morty had stopped crying at all.

“H-He’s coming… He’s gonna kill you!” Morty choked out as he staggered another step forward, and R set down his pipe with an eerie aura of calm as the thought looped through his head in shock. Morty had come back.

 

Morty had come back.

Morty had come back–

 

“–R!”   

The bell rang again and Morty screamed, pulling R from the skipping white noise of his thoughts. Labcoat Rick had stumbled into the store and was holding Morty by the arm.

 

_Why wasn't Morty trying to pull away?_

 

Rick reached out with his other hand to grip Morty’s hair and fiercely angled it toward R, behind the counter. R felt his muscles surge in apprehension, and tension spun like the static hiss at the end of a record’s song.

“Th-th-this who yo-OOUURGH– you’ve been fucking Red-shirt? This the Rick?”

R looked at Morty with a questioning gaze that was far too vulnerable, and it was only then that Morty’s eyes began to well and glisten with tears, but he held them from falling.

Morty wasn’t trying to run away, because he had only come to warn R about his immediate danger. The record store owner visibly winced at the realization.

 

Morty hadn’t come back.  

 

Rick stumbled on his feet, dropping his bottle of triple X on the floor. It landed with a hollow clunk and rolled away from them. R’s eyes narrowed as an incendiary, chaotic rage continued to unravel within him. He glanced through the window to his dealers, who remained still, staring at R through the glass. The record store owner gave a slight, nearly imperceptible nod toward them, letting them know he could take care of this.

He needed to clean up the mess he’d created. It was R’s fault for letting it get this far with Morty. It was his fault that Morty was bruised and bloodied. It was his fault.

 

_It was his fault._

_It was his fault._

 

“I'm sorry, Mort–”

The Rick shook Morty and yelled at him once more.

“–L-Look at me and – _Look at me_ and tell me it’s him, Red-shirt! The Rick you wanted to come back to, so I can blow his fuckin’ brains out.”

R clenched his teeth and and reached beneath his counter, picking up the cold metal weapon while the labcoat was distracted. Carefully, he rounded the counter, threading the brass knuckles through his fingers as he left the cherry burning in his bowl.

“IS THIS WHO YOU’RE FUCKING–!?”

“– _YES!”_

Morty finally choked on the lie he’d likely been holding out on for the past three days, and Labcoat Rick turned to R at the redhead’s admission, grinning wickedly for finally pulling the answer he wanted out of him.

Triumphantly, he pulled Morty into him by the throat, whispering a slew of praise while licking his cheek, before directing his gaze toward R to demonstrate a territorial open mouthed kiss. Pointedly and with intention, he forced his tongue inside of the boy.

The sound Morty made in response was too complex. R grit his teeth at the way Morty's hands instinctively reached for the lapels of the Rick’s labcoat and simultaneously pushed him away. The teen cried out a cacophonous tone of protest and submission, and R’s blood boiled at being made to hear it.

In a haze of instinct, R reached out, too quickly, to grip Morty’s shoulder and tear him away from the forearm Labcoat Rick had barred across his chest, but the Rick held onto him, violently tugging Morty back toward himself. He reached into his labcoat to reveal R’s wooden Church box; R’s heart seized as he saw the bloody fingerprints laying across it, as a fresh wave of questions set fire to his mind.

“This Morty belongs to me.”

Labcoat Rick declared, and lifted the Church box above his head in ceremonious display, before hurling it to the ground, restraining Morty as the teen fought desperately to chase after it. He clawed against Rick’s hold and wailed in an agonizing shriek, and his voice cracked as the wooden box split into pieces. The glass triangle shattered across the floor, exploding in a kaleidoscope of prismatic color.

An array of iridescent rainbows scattered across the record store’s hardwood. And R sharply turned his head away from the sight to prevent himself from losing his focus. Rick laughed at the scene before violently shoving Morty away from him to turn his attention towards R, as the teen immediately dove to pick up the glass pieces, in a visible panic.

“R, I'm sorry!”

Morty’s eyes followed Labcoat Rick, who had made his way over to R, but the record store owner glared at him with a cutting gaze that held a honed edge, and Morty stilled as it glinted toward him with warning.

“Stay away from us, kid.”

Iterations of the same deterministic life. The stoner stared at his own reflective shadow in silence as they circled each other, their panoptic existence pacing round the floor of the record store.

R rose the cold metal to his lips, kissing his brass knuckles to bless them with a seething and vicious hatred, before giving his opponent an unimpressed once over, sizing him up. He stepped toward him, closing the space between them, unafraid.

“How much today? What’s your limit _pendejo–_ wh-where you can no longer visibly pass as sober? Three times? Four? _Vales verga..._ Wanna go eye for an eye? Worthless piece of shit.”

Rick reflected him at the insult, further closing the space, and pressed his forehead into R, walking into him.

 _“Fuck me ,”_ he whispered the drunken threat of violence, lifting a hand to press against R’s chest, intentionally invading his space. R combatively shoved them apart from each other, and the force sent Rick stumbling backwards. The stoner's grip on the brass knuckles tightened as the labcoat swayed against his footwork, lifting his fists to keep his balance.  

“You don’t deserve him.”

He lunged at R, who near-effortlessly stepped out of the man’s drunken, blind rage. The labcoat rounded to throw a spinning punch, but R parried the blow away from him, catching the forearm with his own grip, and held it in place as he glided the leading edge of the brass knuckles across the hard jawline of his opponent.

Brass knuckles were designed to redirect the energy away from the long bones of the hand to the small bones of the wrist, and the impact force immediately transferred from the rings of the brass knuckles directly to the heel of his palm. There was no sense of touch with brass knuckles, there was only power, and the raw, primal abyss of his chaotic emotions behind the physical force. While R was less likely to break his hand, the weapon increased the chance of damaging soft nerve tissue.

The stoner had put a lot of forethought into this weapon of choice, which would always be an extension of his own self. And it was a choice – of intentional physical violence with a potentially devastating cost. His sense of touch, and his enjoyment of sensory experience, was one of the most important things to him.

It was a contradictory compromise, made from understanding the inescapable darkness of his interdimensional existence. To abuse meant proving one’s power and strength, but it was also a promise he had made long before that to himself, because to be abused implied a fundamental flaw in his character.

It wasn't quite _turn the other cheek_ pacifism, but R refused the action of inflicting violence on another unless it risked hurting himself in equal measure, and he took a sick sense of self-satisfaction in his ability to quietly suffer and endure until something in him broke.

 

_“Pull that shit again and don’t bother coming back.”_

 

With a reaching and silent intake of breath, R collected his thoughts, pushing them painfully inward, and counted. He would hurt another, wanting to be hurt in response, because he didn’t feel as worthless when he was something to be used. Manipulating himself to be used gave him another reason to justify the hatred he held toward his fundamentally flawed self.

 

_“Teach you to ever leave here again, Blue.”_

_One for sneaking out. Two for lying. Three for scaring the shit out of him. Four for not using his fucking head. Five for coming back. One for being a worthless piece of shit. One for being born. One for being born. One for being born._

_By the time Richard had come to his senses, R was spitting blood, curled tightly into a ball and begging him to stop. His father drunkenly stumbled backwards as realization washed over him, and he collapsed onto his knees, sobbing in terrified anguish as he took in the damage that he had inflicted on his son._

_“If something happened to you, Blue, what would I would do!? Tell me what I would do!? Huh!? You’re all I have left of her!”_

_R was so shaken by the sudden display of emotion that guilt ignited in his chest like a wildfire and he panicked, offering comfort. In an apology for nothing, he apologized for everything, powerless to change the inescapable fact of his existence._

_“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry.”_

 

Apologies were a fucking contradiction.

They meant nothing to the abuser, and everything to the abused.

R released his grip on his opponent's arm as he threw the weight of his chaotic emotions into the second swing. A crimson red line wrote itself across the papery skin of the Rick’s cheek as his head recoiled to the side with the blow. He stumbled backwards to catch his balance, turning his head back towards R, revealing that his quickly swelling lip had also been split against his teeth.

Without hesitation, R closed the space between them as the Rick moved to throw another punch, and trapped the labcoat’s fist in an elbow lock of his own brass knuckled arm, leveraging the momentum of the moving physical body to his advantage. R stepped back and continued to push the Rick into a downward spin before releasing his elbow and gliding his brass fist back along the arm's length, into the labcoat’s windpipe. The older man choked out a clogged, gasping sound as he collapsed onto the ground.

Without wasting time, R swiftly brought a knee into the Rick’s nose, sending his body into a graceful backwards arc into the ground.  

“R, stop!”

Morty ran over to the record store owner and tugged at his arm in an attempt to end the fight, but R dismissively shoved the boy away from them.

“This Rick’s mine.”

Adrenaline was one hell of a drug. R wasn’t done taking his hits of this Rick yet, and wanted to viciously fuck him down to the pieces of his own self-hating satisfaction, because fear was the most honest form of love he'd ever known.

He casually stepped, barefoot, toward the writhing body as it tried to kick itself away from him. Labcoat Rick held a hand against his face as it spewed an oxidized stream of blood. R delivered a powerful, calculated kick, with the heel of his foot, into the Rick's ribcage, and blood spattered across the floor with the sudden exhale as the Rick folded in on himself.

R unsympathetically spat on him in disgust.

“What, you can dish it out but you can’t fuckin’ take it? _Chingame_ – Up! Get up, you worthless piece of shit.”

The labcoat clenched his teeth and hissed in angry pain, before he pulled himself to his knees. Then, with a large amount of effort, exerted against what R assumed was a cracked rib and internal hemorrhaging, he hoisted himself back onto one knee, spitting out a mouthful of blood with disrespectful intent, and smiled toward R through crimson teeth.

“S-Son of –of a fuckin’ bitch, aren’t you?”

Labcoat Rick wobbled. Whether it was a result of him being drunk or dizzy was unknown, but it only made R’s job easier. The Rick threw himself toward the record store owner, who grabbed his bare knuckles with his free hand, twisted them, then brought a hammer fist down onto the Rick's shoulder, lacerating tendons through blunt force trauma. A loud popping sound was drowned out by the Rick's scream and R further twisted the hand to aggravate the damage he had dealt with a relishing smile.

At the acknowledgement that he was losing the fight, the labcoat reached his good hand into his pocket to reveal a blaster. R caught sight of it and immediately reached for the barrel, pulling his head out of the weapon’s centerline as it fired a blast into the store, and hissing as his free hand was burnt by the chamber. He held onto the weapon, pulling it down to meet with the opposing force of a knee crashing into the joint of the Rick’s arm.

 

_Do It!_

_R held the broken bottle in his shaking hand as he pointed it with uncertainty towards his aggressor. His other pressed against the open, weeping wound at his side. He leaned into the corner he had hidden in, taking sharp breaths against the burning pain, fighting his faltering consciousness. His self-preservation mechanisms kicked in, desperately trying to find a way to survive. His grip tightened around the glass and he started to cry._

_Do it!_

 

It was only ever a matter of time before all Ricks snapped.

The sharp crack was heard long before the the arm folded, giving into the weight of the opposing force.

Rick collapsed to his knees and screamed a gargled mess of expletives from his bloody throat as R disarmed him, flipped the gun around in his hand and blew a clean arc across the side of other Rick’s head with a pistol whip, who returned his freshly cut gaze to R with a wicked grin as a fresh crown of blood spilled down the side of his head.

 

“Do it.”

 

He quietly rasped with a burning antagonization, before steadily crescendoing into a swan song of desperation.  

“Just do it motherfucker! Do it! DO IT!”

 

_Do it, you worthless piece of shit._

_Do It._

_Do It._

 

R coldly cast his gaze downward with dead eyes into the matching pair as he felt his chest rise and fall.

Ricks hated themselves.

R hated Ricks.

His pulse raced with adrenaline and his ears were ringing with pressure as he continued to share eye contact with the Rick, and for a moment they communed with each other in the shared, knowing silence of their sacrosanct existence.

R apathetically tossed the blaster aside before reaching out to fist the other Rick's hair, pulling the man high enough that R could repudiate him with no more than an unforgiving whisper as he pressed his lips mercilessly against the labcoat’s ear.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

R brought one final brass knuckled uppercut into the Rick's sternum, knocking the breath from him once more as it cracked, and he held the collapsed weight in a moment of disappointment before dropping the body with apathy. He passively watched the Rick's eyes roll into the back of his head as the labcoat’s consciousness began to fade.

R stepped closer to him, lowering himself into a crouching position that leaned over the writhing form. He tucked his elbows onto his thighs, towering over the body on the floor beside him, enjoying the sight of his interdimensional counterpart expending the effort to suffer and continue existing.

He spoke as soft secret so full of self-hatred that he could only truly confess it to himself, and he pressed its endless coda into the stillness at the center of his existence, where everything had stopped spinning.

“I belong to that Morty.”

The labcoat wheezed and coughed a series of wet gurgling sounds as if, despite his current state, he was making an attempt to laugh. He flashed R a knowing smile, thin as his alcoholic blood.

“R-Red…”  

The Rick called out another of Morty’s names, and R looked over his shoulder to see the redhead running toward his call. Without thinking, R reached out and, with his forearm, barred Morty from going to him.

They shared eye contact for a painful moment and R took in the expression that reflected what Morty had just witnessed. Fear, concern, and panic bled through his features and body language, and R bit his tongue in silence until he tasted iron.

He lifted his hand from Morty’s chest, and the boy collapsed onto the ground beside his abuser to embrace him.

“Rick!”

It was only fitting that he was named after that sick fuck.

The Rick's head bobbed aimlessly as its voice searched for him, and Morty held him with a far too delicate embrace, offering comfort.

“I’m here, Rick. I'm sorry. I’m here.”

The building static of R’s mind hissed into a white abyss, and before his thoughts caught up to him, his body automatically began to remove himself from the store.

He walked through the front door, and approached Rick and Silent Morty, who had been on standby, watching the scene from the window.

He felt his weight buckle underneath him, and barely registered the impact of his knees hitting the hard pavement as he crumpled onto the curb, burying his head into the concrete to take a series of deep, staggering breaths. His squatters hovered over him, and Rick spoke for the pair with a tone of panic.

“R, tell us what you need.”

R took a few more breaths before he answered them in a quiet, serious tone.

“Get that Rick out of my store before I kill him.”

Without another word or hesitation, Rick and Silent Morty quietly slipped into the record store. A few moments of silence passed before the bell rang and they emerged in grim silence, nodded at him, and turned to walk down the street. Morty followed through the door shortly after and began shouting at R in a panic.  

“R! They put Rick in their backpack! They took him away!”

R ignored Morty, continuing to count his breaths. He couldn’t speak to him right now. Not like this. Morty pressed R for answers and the record store owner continued to actively remove the voice from his senses.

He silently rose and walked back into his store. Still clenching the bloody brass knuckles, as his own bled white, he surveyed the wake of the chaos he had set free within his store.

 

  
The cold sweat that washed over R at the acknowledgement was instantaneous as the adrenaline left him, and the hallowed feeling in his veins shrank in a fear that drowned out all other sensations. His throat bled dry and he felt the thrum of his heartbeat quicken once again, this time with a frenzied panic as he tensed and fought to regain control of his body. The room had begun to spin around him, and he fought the motions, exhaling slow, careful, counted breaths, because it was the only thing left he had control over.  

He forced the oxygen back into his bloodstream, willing himself away from the deluge of his mind, but he could feel his body involuntarily shaking against the counter, the glass pieces rattling in caution against the hard surface.

“R...are you okay?”  
  
R removed the brass knuckles, and intentionally flattened his hands against the glass surface to stabilize his racing thoughts, sucking in another deep breath. He caught his reflection in the glass and fought against the thought of shattering it in a momentary fit of rage.

He forced his eyes shut and braced himself, leaning against the surface and continuing to fight against his body’s overwhelming sense of fear. He sucked in another breath of clean air and counted the seconds, reminding himself that his physical body could only exist in such a panicked state for thirty three minutes. He had timed it enough times by now to know. Thirty three minutes. Thirty three minutes.

 

_Where was his fucking pipe?_

 

“...R?”

He dry-swallowed at the sound, and spoke a command to Morty through clenched eyes and gritted teeth. His voice was meticulously slow and firm.

“No, Morty, I'm– I need you to leave.”

“I can...I can help you clean up the sto-”

Morty hadn't come back.

 

_It was his fault._

 

Morty hadn’t come back, because he went back to _him_.

 

_It was his fault._

 

Morty was going to go back to _him_.

 

_It was his fault._

 

“–Morty!...I. I need.” He sharply breathed. “I need you. To leave... _Please.”_

R repeated the only phrase he trusted himself to utter, through gritted teeth. He clenched and unclenched his stinging fist, his knuckles burning from the repeated impacts. If nothing else, his his father’s love was effective.

Thoughts swirled in his mind as he silently wished that he _had_ killed that labcoat. He should have killed him. He should have made Morty watch to show the redhead that he was no different.

 _“_ R, I don't… I’m afraid to leave you like this.”

“This needs to stop.”

“What do you–”

“Us! Church, Morty! There is _nothing_ good about me! About any Rick. I-I-I don’t.” R swallowed the emotions rising in his voice and growled against the lump in his throat. “I don't understand why you can't fuckin' see that. You’re are better than that– You're better than me!”

“You're not like the other Ricks, R, you’re–”

“–Fuck!” R caught himself at the crack in his voice as he spun to face Morty, throwing his arms in the air. “How many times do I have to say it before it goes through your _fucking_ head! I’m _exactly_ like that Rick, Morty! _I am him!”_

“I’m not some fragile–” Morty began, unsure of himself, and started again with a quieter voice. “I know it's fucked up, R, but I can handle it. I uh, I can handle you, or any Rick... But you're not just any other Rick to me. _”_

“–All Ricks have ever done to you is fuck you up and hope you’re strong enough to take it, Morty!”

“That’s not!–”

R reached for his tablet, and played a Beatles song over the loudspeakers in his store, internally dedicating it to Morty as it began to sound across the aftermath of his broken life. Frustrated, he tossed the tablet back to its place on the counter.

It was the only way he could speak to the teen right now. He didn't know how to make Morty understand how institutionalized he was. It was the irrefutable fact of their shared existence, and no amount of wishful thinking could change that.

 

 

 _I look at you all, see the love there that’s sleeping  
__While my guitar gently weeps_  

 _I look at the floor, and I see it needs sweeping  
_ _While my guitar gently weeps_

 

Deep down, R wanted to hope for Morty.

Even deeper down, hoping for something better for the redhead was only ever a means to further luxuriate in his own feelings of self-hatred.

“Show me how much of a Rick you are, then– Cause I...I’m gonna need more than just your fear to be convinced, R. _Show me_ how you can be like every other Rick!”

R took in the body that was covered in marks and bruises yet still obstinately standing his ground, convinced that the way he had been treated didn't matter. He clenched his eyes shut once more, and snarled at Morty, turning his head away from the teen.

“Take a fuckin’ look at yourself, Morty. Go home and clean yourself up before you start– just get the fuck out of here. GO! Get out of my life! Get away from me! I can’t– I need– I need to be alone, kid. I deserve to be–”

“–Go _home?_! The closest thing I have to that is Church!” Morty caught R's arm and the older man sharply jerked away, baring his teeth in warning.

“Look, kid, this isn’t the time–”

“–It’s _never_ the right time for you, R! I’m not leaving until you can prove it to me. And what– whatever you think you're afraid of, I can handle it, because you’re not like them R!”

“I don’t want to _be_ on your fuckin’– fucked up piece of shit pedestal, Morty!”

“And I don't want to be on yours!– so show me what you're so afraid of –why you’re so afraid of being together!”

“It’s not about being together, Morty!”

“Then what is it!?”

“I can’t trust you to _not_ lose sight of who you are when you’re with me!”

R spoke over Morty’s response and continued to argue, his voice climbing.

“–and I can’t trust _myself,_ Morty! I told you! I can’t trust that I won’t take everything from you, because you have a shitty fucking baseline and a non-existent sense of self.”

R scoffed toward the redhead as he considered the decision of revealing to the teen the self-hatred that existed at the fundamental core of his collective self.

“You’re gonna run back to that fucking labcoat, or you’re gonna let me do the same to you– you’re running in circles, kid, because you don’t know what you want–”

“–I _want_ you to be different!”

He would show Morty the inevitability of what Morty thought he wanted, and the futility of daring to believe that R was different. For hoping that R could be the Rick to save him from his own self.

 

There was no different kind of Rick.

There was never any different kind of Rick.

 

Self-hatred had always been a Rick’s default setting, and the concept that every Rick worshiped described the insidious cancer – a preoccupation with the fundamental emptiness and worthlessness of their own existence.

 

Ultimately, Ricks worshiped what they most feared.

In turn, they gave it everything, and what they most feared consumed them.

 

Derisively, R swallowed the poisonous thoughts and decided to make a choice of consequence. In the ultimate expression of worship to his collective self, he would ceremoniously burn to ashes the first beautiful thing he had become obsessed with.

 

He would silence the first thought that had made all others fall quiet.

 

_Do it, you worthless piece of shit._

_Do it._

 

“You wanna see my deepest fear? How I can be like all the other _fucking Ricks_ , kid?”

R shook in fear – in awe of the presence in his life as it voluntarily sacrificed itself to him, and grimaced at the acknowledgement. Ricks were deeply dangerous in the ways they expressed love, and Morty was already dressed in crimson red, like a fatalistic omen of R's worst fears.

 

 _I don't know why nobody told you  
__How to unfold your love_  

 _I don't know how someone controlled you_  
_They bought and sold, sold you_

 

The stoner’s hand snaked out, constricting around Morty's arm, and bit into his skin, gripping it so tightly over his own counterpart’s handprint that it stung. Morty winced at the pain as his eyes widened. He looked from the hand to R with an indistinguishable expression of love and fear.

R’s eyes had become acidic, and the swirling razor-sharp edge melted into the core of his being. He began walking towards Church, dragging Morty behind him as the teen tried to tug away from R's immovable grip. Without warning, he threw the redhead through the beaded curtain with enough force to send him crashing to the floor. Morty attempted to lift himself from the carpet, but R quickly chased him onto the fringes, pinning his weight on top of Morty before grabbing his hair with a violent tug to pull his head upwards.

 

“You want me to fuckin’ _show you_?”

As a testament to the self-hatred that had consumed him, R would reveal to Morty who he truly was.

The paroxysm was all he had.

 

 _I don't how_  
_You were diverted  
_ _You were perverted too_

 

R lifted Morty from the ground by his shirt in an attempt to drag him toward the beanbag, and heard the fabric of the hem line pop as worn threads gave way beneath Morty's weight, causing the redhead to shout in protest at the damage. He shoved Morty's face into the black fabric of the chair and Morty struggled against the lack of air as R held him in place.

 

 _I don't know how_  
_You were inverted  
_ _No, no one alerted you_

 

“Don’t fuckin’ kid yourself, Morty,” he spat. “I’m just like your original Rick – that other labcoat I just painted the store with. Like every fuckin’ Rick you've ever let use and abuse you.” 

R let go of Morty's head and pressed their bodies together, growling into Morty's ear as he held his arms tightly in place behind him. Morty gasped for a full breath of air before he felt Rick's hand snake around to catch his throat in a grip.

 

 

_Still my guitar gently weeps_

 

 

“Is this what you _fucking wanted,_ kid?”  

Morty turned to look at R and the older man hissed into his ear in warning.

“R, I don't–”

“–Don't– fucking look at me, Morty.”

  
  
  


_Still my guitar gently weeps_

  
  
  


R couldn't look at Morty right now. Not right now. Not like this, when he was high on love and drunk on hate. Morty nodded, his lip quivering. He sniffled quietly, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

  
  
  
  
  


“I’m sorry... I won't look at you.”

  
  
  
  
  


R reached in front of the boy with his free hand and unbuttoned his pants, stripping Morty down to his thighs with a violent tug, swallowing down the nausea that caught on his tongue as he tried to ignore the fresh bruises and the sight of Morty's hardening erection, and all of the fucked up things it implied about how normalized this scenario was to him.

He lashed out at Morty’s dismissal of his fear, choosing words that penetrated deep, because he wanted the redhead to understand that he deserved better than this. Than him.

“I’ve never fucked a Morty before, but if you want me to _fucking prove it to you,_ I will. You want me to claim you like you're my fucking property? Treat you as less than? A hole to fuck because _you can fucking handle it_?”

He spat into his hand and moved his finger over Morty's entrance, realizing as he did so that Morty was already lubricated. R pressed the tip of his finger against Morty before pulling it closer for examination. It was sperm.

A sledgehammer of emotion hit R's stomach at the dark epiphany, and his anger returned with a vitriolic vengeance. He felt the slick, validating proof between his fingers, and grimly understood, without a shadow of a doubt, how much of a Rick he truly was.

The world fell silent as he felt the alarm of his heartbeat quicken, its pulse surging through the veins behind his ears as his teeth clenched and he restrained Morty more tightly beneath him, feeling tears bud in his eyes as he shuddered out heavy, hissing breaths, fighting to regain control of himself. He needed to continue. He needed to end this.

He pulled Morty against him with a possessive, anguished snarl.

“I'm gonna fuck that Rick's cum out of you, Morty.”

 

_He deserves so much better than this._

 

“R...I’m sorry.” Morty apologized with another sniff to R for what the other Rick had done to him, and it made R even more furious.

R was more afraid of himself than anything else.

 

_You're nothing like them._

_You're everything like them._

 

“You still wanna give everything to me, _Red?”_

He irreverently wiped the ejaculate on Morty's red shirt before reaching down to his own pants, pushing the fabric away with an equally violent tug, just enough to free himself, and pumped hatred and fear, the most penetrating of preachers, into his erection before slicking it with spit, and lining it up against the entrance of the person below him.

R couldn’t think of Morty clearly, and mentally objectified him, gripping a fistful of sacrificial red hair as the boy gasped at the feeling and struggled against him. R moved his hand to dig fingers around Morty's shoulders, before thrusting sharply into him, setting an efficient, brutal pace.

 

Fear was the only form of love he’d ever believed in.

Self-hatred was the only form of love he could feel.

 

Morty gasped at the fullness, and R focused again on the fistful of red hair, grunting out a rhythm of shallow breaths as he continued to thrust. Morty cried out, and R leaned closer into the boy’s body, feeling his own wet cheek slip along the nape of Morty’s neck. He blinked against the boy’s warm skin, before burying his nose into the tresses of crimson hair that smelled of iron and salt. His tangled fingers had aggravated whatever wounds the other Rick had left him with, and re-opened them.

 

_You’re hurting him._

 

His disgust with himself further heightened his arousal, as it spiraled into a chaotic storm of tempestuous thoughts, caught in a chaotic centrifuge of self-hatred. He wrenched his fist in the tangled threads of the red shirt, wanting to rip the piece of stained fabric from from the boy's very soul.

“Th-this is the only thing you understand– D-does it hurt Morty? Is this what you want? Something like this to be what defines a loving relationship?”

  


_This is what we wanted._

  
  


“I want you, R.”

Morty choked out the confession as R felt the boy tighten around him. He continued, crying out to him as the older man continued to thrust.

“I don't care, _because it's_ _you!”_

R released his hands, thumbing the redhead’s hipbone as he heard a series of whimpering sounds beneath his own shaky exhales. It was a mixed cocktail of protest, submission and desire, and the boy pushed back onto him.

 

 

_Let the inevitable happen._

 

 

He wrapped an arm around Morty's chest and held their bodies together, moaning against the swelling lump in his throat, choking back tears as he forced the progression of his movements.

 

“I wanted…”

 

_I want you to stay, so that I can ruin you._

_I want to give myself to you, knowing I'll never be enough._

_I'm not different, but I wanted to be different for you._

 

Full of contradictions, but mostly full of shit.

 

“I wanted...”

Self-hatred was a ritual as addictive as any other substance Ricks abused. He stared, continuing to focus on the red mental haze as the sound of skin slapping melted away with the rest of his reality, and he felt the Citadel stop spinning.

Their mouths fell open in a hollow, lamenting song, echoing one another as their breaths panted against the endless void in a mournful eulogy– escaping through the cracks in their shared existence.

The vapid mouthpiece of an impersonal cosmic force.

 

_I wanted you to call me R._

 

He gasped, feeling like he could finally breathe, and he poured hot streams of air against the redhead’s back as his muscles tightened. He wrapped fingers around Morty's throat, inviting the boy further into his existence, and sped the motion of his hips into sharp, shallow thrusts as the syllogism inevitably completed itself.  

Ricks hated themselves.

R hated Ricks.

R hated himself.

 

R leaned into the teen’s body, allowing his lips to fall onto the surface of Morty's brokenness in a final, shattering kiss of betrayal; reached in front of the redhead to pump the boy’s erection, and keened.

 

_“Fuck me!”_

 

Morty moaned against his own vibrating chest, until R felt the boy's flesh tighten and then release beneath him with an equally terrified shudder, and in a shameful prayer, the teen called out the name that both was and wasn’t his, trembling in fear and awe of its presence.

 

“Rick!”

 

At hearing the word, _Rick_ felt himself fall apart as he came, then wilted inside of Morty, as he became aware of himself, gently weeping over the sacrificed body. The ever-present stream of thoughts consciously filled his lungs, and he panted, gasping breaths over Morty’s flesh. The presence whom it belonged to shuddered unstable streams of air beneath him.

Together, they held the perpetually breaking silence that stretched between them, endless as the clutch of Death's hand.

  


 

 _Round and around and around and around we go_  


“M-m-mor”

Everything built between them had been reduced to self-destructive ashes, and the moment glowed with an evocative sense of finality– as if the light from the burning flesh of their funeral pyre could show R the way through the abyss of his own chaotic existence.

R’s chin trembled as he tried to speak his name, the sounds frantically stumbled out of his mouth into quivering lips and their motion rippled into his body. He brought a hand over his mouth to stabilize it, but began to shake with sobs as the weight of his sabotage crashed onto him, and the darkness of his existence was made visible.

Morty pulled himself away from R and tugged his pants up, covering himself in shame as he also began to cry. Instinctively, R reached out to touch him, and the redhead flinched before scrambling away from his reach. R's hand recoiled at the display, and he tucked it into himself as his weight pressed back on his heels.

“Wait!”

As he motioned with the intent to rise to his feet and leave Church, Morty leapt forward, catching his wrist, and causing R to reactively bring his other shaking hand between them to cover his face in shame as the boy pleaded with him to stay.

“Don’t leave, Rick. Please. _Please_ don’t go.”

Morty's voice was so desperate and frail. So completely vulnerable, and R felt distant in his own reply. He was losing his touch with reality.

“I’m a little lost in my head right now, Morty. I don’t want to hur– I need to...I need to get aw–”

R’s voice caught on the words as he tried to pull himself away. His eyes flicked toward Morty, and be he caught the distinct shape of his own fingers burning fresh colors around the redhead’s neck.

“If you leave –I-I know I said I could handle it…” Morty began as his voice became increasingly erratic. “–but I can’t handle it if you– if you leave right now, so _please_. Don’t go.”

Something broke inside of Morty and he began crying in earnest as the words spilled from the open wound of his lips. “Don’t lock m-me in this room, Grandpa Rick. Please don’t lock me in here.”

“Lock you in...What are you–”

Morty crawled closer to R on his knees as he cried, reaching out to him for comfort, and R recoiled away from his touch, once again, causing the boy to hiccup and rub the heel of his palm across his eyes, as gut-wrenching sobs of desperation overtook him. The redhead threw himself forward to grab onto the hem of R’s shirt in another attempt to sway the older man.   

“Please don’t leave me in here! I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t lock me in here. I want you. I love you. I’m sorry. Don’t leave me. I don’t want to be stuck in here alone. I'm sorry Grandpa Rick. I’m sorry!”

“M-M-Morty. There’s no locks here, okay? You gotta believe me.” R’s throat tightened as if Morty’s words were strangulating him.

 

_“Gonna teach you to try’n run away from me, Blue.”_

 

He caught the lump in his throat at the thought once again, and choked on his words.  

“There are– There’s no locks in Church. I’m not like him, I-I’ll never put locks– I...fuck. _Fuck_! I’m sorry, Morty.”

R curled himself into a tight kneeling ball on the carpet, and buried his face between his knees.

“I'm so sorry, Morty. Fuck. _Fuck_. I’m so sorry.”

He apologized for nothing and everything as his body continued to tremor with the Earth-shattering revelation of his actions, and his eyes bled tears like sacrament as he pressed his nose into the wet fringes of the carpet, pulling at fistfuls of hair in anguish, too ashamed to reveal his most vulnerable self.

A hand pressed itself along the knobby bones of R’s back and he jerked at the touch, causing Morty to also quickly flinch away.

“I won't.” R shook his head into the floor as he sobbed into the dark fringes, not knowing what to do. “I won’t go anywhere. But– just don’t look at me, Morty. Please don’t look at me. Don’t look.”

Sobbing anew with relief at R’s words, Morty draped his body over the stoner's and hugged him with a tenderness undeserved. R continued to weep with Morty as he pulled the older man’s hands from the tangled snarl of his hair, and tightly stitched their fingers together.

R held onto Morty’s presence as if he were gripping onto the final fraying threads of his mind.

“I’m Right here. I-I’m not going anywhere.”

R grieved for the Morty who would offer comfort to the Rick who had just raped him. He grieved for the the Ricks who were once Mortys themselves. That they had become, just as Morty would become, and he grieved for the perpetual spinning cycle of chaos between them that only seemed to stop when they held each other close.

 

Morty was more fucked up than R thought.

R was more broken than he knew.

 

Blood surged, threading through the veins between their fingers in a thundering chant until knuckles bled white. He didn't deserve the presence trying to hold the pieces together.

 

He didn’t deserve this.

 

He didn’t deserve this.

 

He didn’t deserve this.

 

He hated himself for wanting it, despite.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N on the story so far:** I just wanted to take a moment, break the fourth wall and say a thank you – for giving me your trust with this story that tackles some really heavy themes in some really complex ways. Telling the story in this way was not a decision I made lightly, and I'm going to continue to do my best to treat your emotions with the same care as I have throughout the fic so far.
> 
> While an abuser’s experienced trauma does not justify the perpetuation of their abuse, a big theme of TMTC is looking at the insidious cycles. The perpetuation of violence. At its heart, however, this will always be a story about both of our characters learning how to not only escape from that vicious cycle, but learning to find something greater than it.  
>    
> Both of our characters need to escape pervasive patterns of abuse, and both will need to grapple through the deep-seated issues that this chapter has brought into focus. I hope you will continue to follow this story, and know that I will do my best to continue to take care of you. 
> 
> **Blackbird (1968):** Paul McCartney stated of the song, “I had in mind a black woman, rather than a bird. Those were the days of the civil rights movement, which all of us cared passionately about, so this was really a song from me to a black woman, experiencing these problems in the States: Let me encourage you to keep trying, to keep your faith; there is hope...As is often the case with my things, a veiling took place, so rather than saying, ‘Black woman living in Little Rock’ and be very specific, she became a bird, became symbolic, so you could apply it to your particular problem.” 
> 
> **Gypsy Eyes (1968):** This fic very intentionally connects R to Jimi Hendrix’s music. The line, "Two strange men fightin' to the death over me today" is a reference to two men who claimed to be Hendrix's father in an effort to capitalize on his success and money, however, the song is written about Hendrix's mother Lucille, and a salute to "Field Hollers"... where African American slaves would come up with working songs, on plantations.
> 
>  **The Wind Cries Mary (1967):** Jimi wrote this in 1967 for Are You Experienced?; it was inspired by his girlfriend at the time, whose middle name was used in the song. He'd gotten into an argument with her, and a fight escalated between the two, resulting in Hendrix being reportedly hit over the head with a frying pan. The popular culture telling of this story is that, immediately following the fight, he locked himself in his apartment and wrote this song. 
> 
> The version that ended up on the album was their first take, as the emotion was so raw. In our fic, it catches the feeling of shock and confusion in the aftermath of the fight between Ricks.
> 
>  **While My Guitar Gently Weeps (1968):** Harrison was thinking about I Ching, the Book of Changes and the Eastern concept that whatever happens was always meant to be, and that there is no such thing as coincidence and everything has a purpose. In practice of this idea, he decided to write a song based on the first thing he saw upon opening any book, believing that it would be relative to that moment, at that time. On opening it, he saw the phrase 'gently weeps', and started writing the song. The initial incarnation, however was not the final version. Some of the words to the song were changed before he finally recorded it. 
> 
> **Martin Luther McCoy Cover (2007):** The San Francisco native and appears as one of the six lead characters in the 2007 Beatles musical Across the Universe in the role of "Jo-Jo", who reflects Jimi Hendrix. In the film, this scene is a nod to Musical folklore: Jimi Hendrix’s legendary performance following the assassination of Martin Luther King. As the lore goes, Hendrix was playing a gig in the South, when he got news of the assassination, abandoned his setlist, and dedicated the next song “to a friend” following with what people describe as the most hauntingly beautiful songs ever played by Hendrix, straight from his soul and fully improvised. Everyone was so mesmerized by the moment, that not a single recording exists. 
> 
> **Stay (2012):** Applies to R and Music Morty’s relationship at this point of the story, defined by themes of fear and apprehension. Both R and Morty’s lives are explored through circular themes, and the references to “round and round” capture many of the ideas that culminate in this moment where all the motion crashes to a halt. Read in their context of Rihanna's history with domestic violence in a relationship, the lyrics take on a much darker tone. The line "if you dare come a little closer" is, on the surface, a simple, relatable evocation of how love makes us vulnerable, but there is a contradictory promise of threat and intimacy which seems to characterize the relationship in the song.


	14. In the Madness and Soil of That Sad Earthly Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s the difference between getting off and getting high.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N** This chapter isn’t explicit, however, it is very triggering in that it will involve a deep dive into Morty’s headspace, as he deals with dissociation, trauma, and as he has to process what happened. There will be a few flashbacks to the Church scene of the previous chapter, and some whiplash-y, gaslight-y thoughts as he remembers his grandfather. Please take a look at the General TW’s and the chapter recap if you are sensitive to this kind of content. 
> 
> **General TWs:** dissociation, derealization, depersonalization, angst, flashbacks, post traumatic episode, internalized abuse, whiplash thoughts and confusion, internalized gaslighting, emotional breakdowns in the shower, consciousness instability  
>     
>  Spoiler Summary Feature is Disabled. Click "Show Creator's Style" at the top of this page to activate. (Mobile Friendly)

 

 

 

_“Please...Don’t come back, Morty.”_

 

Morty wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.

His thoughts were somewhere else, and he moved involuntarily as he registered the distant physical movement of his body from the back of his unconscious mind.

He had always known that he was broken, but it felt like he was actively falling apart. With each small motion of his limbs, the cracked pieces of himself grated against each other, and he felt like he had been been drifting away for a while, until suddenly, Morty did not feel like himself anymore. His body felt as if it did no longer belonged to him; the voice of his own thoughts had become a perfect stranger. It was a sensation that left him feeling empty, but comfortably numb.

Nothing and everything mattered simultaneously.

He floated through his echoing thoughts, chewing the inside of his cheek to occupy himself with anything other than having to consider the fuzzy reality hovering around the edges of his mental clouds. He stared blankly at the brightly colored packaging lining the rows of the Morty Mart.

He’d shown up to work hours ahead of his shift, and used the public restroom to clean up as best he could, before returning to quietly ask his supervisor if he could work.

Manager Rick leaned against the mop he had been using to clean the floor, and studied the dishevelled boy with a decisive frown, before eventually nodding with a sigh. Without another word, the teen put on his apron and nametag before taking his place behind the countertop, where he had stayed, unmoving, lost in the thoughts he had come to work with the intention of avoiding for the better part of an hour.

He had forgotten how to use the register.

Morty wasn’t sure if he was even at the Morty Mart. Everything felt like a waking dream, and the redhead was near-certain that he had been reduced to an abstract concept. A mass of molecules drifting at the whims of the universe.

“This is...real...right?”

He swallowed, hesitant to question the nature of his reality.

A brightly colored candy bar wrapper slid into view across the laminate surface, and Morty turned his head, looking up to see his supervisor still frowning toward him.

Manager Rick was never one to press for details, although it was clear something had happened to Morty. The supervising Rick would play along with whatever Morty projected, and if Morty didn't want to talk about anything, they wouldn't. It had always been that simple. Morty considered, through a fleeting thought, that it was why the teen had needed to go to work in the first place.

Morty couldn't look at him, however, and turned his face away from the Rick. He wasn’t intending to be rude, he just wasn't ready to think about Ricks in any variation. They looked too much like him, sometimes.

“You need to pay for that,” the teen suggested, absentmindedly stating the obvious fact of how a corner store worked, failing to recognize that he was instructing his supervisor.

The manager shrugged, helping himself to the candy bar in a show of pointed resistance. He waggled it in front of Morty’s face, before peeling back the metallic-esque wrapper to take a bite, speaking to him with a mouth full of sugar.

“Eh, if the worst I'm doing is skimming candy bars and fucking around on the clock, I'm a model employee.”

“Wait...where was I? Just now?”

Morty reached out and listlessly stared at his disconnected hand, before remembering, with a passive acknowledgement, that it belonged to his own physical body. He glanced toward his manager, watching their interaction from outside of himself, and focused on his breathing.

“I don’t know where you _were_ , but you’re here at the Morty Mart, now.”

In, and out, he breathed as a dispassionate observer of his own life. Morty had heard someone talking, but didn’t fully hear what he was saying. The words were wrapped in a serious tone.

“...high are you right now?”

  


_Don’t think about it._

 

 

 

“I’m not…”

 

 

 

_“I dunno R, it makes me feel good...and I don’t have to think about things for a bit.”_

_“Want me to show you how I make love?”_

_“Gonna be a total fucking hypocrite for today, because all I do anymore is smoke to turn off. I-I’m not even sure if an addict can even use recreationally.”_

_“It’s the difference between wanting to get off and wanting to get high.”_

_“I wanted to get high with you.”_

_“You wanna get off with me, Morty?”_

_“I’m full of metaphors and contradictions, Morty.”_

_  
“You can’t know what you want because you have no fucking idea what you're asking for.”_

 

 

 

 

_“There is no different kind of Rick.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suddenly, his head began to feel heavy, as the floating sensation he had escaped into reminded him of R, and of Church. Within a specific thought that he voiced into the abyss, Morty felt himself crash into the medium of his reality.

 

“I wanted him to be different.”

 

It was an admission to himself rather than toward his supervisor, and as he confessed, in acceptance of the reality that he didn’t want, he felt tears well, then spill from his eyes. Determined, he blinked them back, not wanting to cry at work– wanting to continue to pretend like things were not what they actually were, because Manager Rick had told him not to bring his shit to work.

 

He started crying anyways.  

 

Manager Rick lowered the candy bar from his face with a stoic expression and sighed as he dropped the small talk, patting his coworker’s back. Morty's entire body tensed at the contact as he shed tears, sputtering apologies.

“I told him I could handle it…”

“Yeah, well...doesn't make it your fault that you couldn't... It's why I just stick to the fun part.”

Morty nodded along with him. His lip continued to shake as he quickly wiped tears from his eyes, wanting to believe that he wasn’t crying as much as he actually was.

A pair of Mortys walked into the mini mart, taking in the scene, and his Manager shouted that they were closed and chased them out of the store. Grumbling under his breath, he returned to the counter, making a point to lean against the wall opposite Morty. He folded his arms and continued to calmly stare at him.    

“Normally I'd flip the sign, lock up shop – you know, close down ‘n’ give you a minute, but this place is always open – locks have all been broken a few too many times...but uh, you want a hug or something?”

Morty continued to sob, shaking his head as he considered the question. Manager Rick nodded in response and moved a bit further away from the teen, climbing on top of his stool to sit. He fished out a copy of _RS Magazine_ and took another bite of his candy bar, giving Morty space, and continued to talk about the store's terrible security.

“Broken locks and all other things considered – and I know it probably doesn’t mean shit to you right now– but for what it’s worth, you're safe here.”

“–Oh!? Do you think you– that you’re any different!?”

Morty hadn't intended for the brash response to lash out of him in such an accusing way, but he genuinely wanted to know if all Ricks thought like R. If all Ricks were essentially the same, and if pushed far enough, even this Rick could reveal another side of himself.

“Uh...Okay, _ouch_ .” Manager Rick frowned at Morty’s insinuation before continuing, mimicking his tone. “If heavy-handed realism is how you wanna work through this, sure, I can play it like that. Let's start with how I thought you were _fucking dead_ . You didn't show up for _three days_ , Mort! A-and then you show up looking like _this_ , barefoot and beaten, asking if you can _work!”_

Morty wiped away the last of his tears and sniffed bitterly toward him, and Manager Rick folded his arms and looked away from Morty.

“Look, it’s pretty obvious that your ‘OG’ Rick did a number on you. If you ask me, he's _still_ doing a fucking number on you– And yeah, Ricks all more-or-less have the same disposition about life, but fuck the CF curve and any version of _me_ or _you_ who feeds you that deterministic bullshit, _especially_ if they’re living on the Citadel.”

His manager slapped the magazine against his chest as his voice climbed.

“It’s _because_ I know the CF Curve exists, Morty, that I'm no longer predestined to follow it. The second I stepped foot on the Citadel, I started living outside of the only option my own dimensional timeline handed me, and that’s true for any other Rick or Morty– It's always been easier to say shit like _the curve fucked the draw_ than take a long hard look at yourself and change the trajectory of your life.”

Morty was silent for a long moment, considering his supervisor's soapbox manifesto. It was what he had always wanted to believe. That Ricks _could_ change, that _he_ could change, but after so many attempts to believe it, he’d begun doubting that it was possible. There was no different kind of Rick.

“I always wanna believe they’re gonna be different.”

“Well, there's your problem, kid. Stop comparing them! Don’t get gaslit by the image you build of someone in your own head, Morty. You gotta take a look at the Rick they actually are, and what they’ve actually done!– Don’t make excuses for some Rickhole who hurts you because you wanna _think_ of them as good, or see them as this idealized image of what you want. It’s not about how different or alike they are, it's about how you perceive and accept each one as their own individual person.”

Morty’s tears died down as he silently wondered if he was looking for his grandfather in R, or if he had always only ever been searching for the idea of love that his grandfather had once represented to him.

Whichever it was, Morty _had_ been hoping to find it in R, and in every other Rick that he had been with.

Maybe he had been setting himself up for failure each time.

“Should I… should I leave him?”

“You're the only one who can make that call kid,” his manager reiterated, before taking another bite of his candybar. “Whatever choices that kind of– that kind of self-awareness leads you to– As long as _you are the one_ who makes the choice, you're the only one who can truly ever call it right or wrong...I call it personal accountability, but it's really just part of growing up and gaining a sense of self.”

Morty turned to face his manager, and took into account the person he had considered his friend and unconventional mentor long before he had considered him a Rick.

If all Ricks are were the things they did, then his boss was kind. He continued to offer words of managerial advice.

“...and, on the flip side, if you really wanna leave, you can't ignore the fact that you're pretty much a junkie walking away from an addiction. Gotta be ready and willing to let go of him, cause we all wanna idealize that extraordinary asshole who broke our heart, but take it from me, Morty, every trip down memory lane, every sad song on the radio– it’s just another quick fix that pulls you back in and makes it harder for you to let him go.”

His manager punctuated his statement with another determined bite of his candybar.

“Use this moment of sobriety to your advantage. Your Ricklationship with that labcoat is ending because it had to, you grew out of it– so go give yourself the closure you need to keep yourself from falling back in love with him. It’s how I’ve best figured it out at least, but maybe you'd be better off hedging your bets on the Morty Academy... try ‘n’ get off this spinning shit platter...but I guess you can’t really ever go home again, huh?”

Morty frowned at the thought of returning to a version of his home on Earth, or even his own dimension– It would never again be a normal life for him. What depressingly little freedom he had, he’d found it on the Citadel. He could never again follow another Rick, not like he had followed his grandfather. Even the thought made his stomach sick.

“I’ll never wear a yellow shirt again.”

If he ever truly had one choice on the Citadel that was his own, it was to choose how he lived his life following his grandfather's death, and as much as he didn't want to admit it, choosing which Rick he wanted to be with was part of that. It was the final choice his grandfather had given him.

“Fair. I just didn’t want you to forget, or take for granite that it’s an option, one Ricks don't have. Just by having it exist – you get to _choose_ to stay on the Citadel and make the best of a bad situation.”

Manager Rick rose from his stool, swiping his mug off the counter and walked it over to the soda dispenser, filling it. He reached toward the rack on the way back, swiping another couple of candy bars, and tossed one to Morty, who caught it as it collided with his chest.

It was a Simple Rick’s brand designed for Mortys. Manager Rick opened one of his own, a line advertising a simple life for himself, and savored his first bite.

“The _impossible_ flavor of your own completion...” He mused, but Morty interrupted his thoughts.

“Do most Ricks wanna be here?”

His manager ignored Morty's question, and instead took a contemplative sip from his mug. His expression often shifted into a hard, blank stare when an answer was more complex than a simple “yes” or “no”. Suddenly, he gave an answer, surmising the thoughts that had just played out behind his distantly gazing eyes.

“Well, they didn’t _choose_ to kill themselves...so they found _something_ worth staying for.”

Morty supposed that all Ricks, even those on the Citadel against their will, could still choose to leave by suicide if they truly didn’t want to remain. And for the Ricks like R and his grandfather, who had voluntarily moved here, maybe their choice had already saved them from something similar in their own dimensional timelines. Maybe his grandfather thought the Citadel could change him.

R had likened it to a mental institution that he had checked himself into. Perhaps for Ricks, the Citadel had originally been made to help them. Morty didn't like what that implied about the Mortys who had joined them, and was unsure on whether to place fault on his collective selves, or the infinite Rick.

Morty never liked to dwell on thoughts surrounding why his grandfather had chosen to bring them here. Thinking about it would change nothing, and so he believed that there was no point in the unnecessary pain exploring the memories caused him.

Although his supervisor was kind, Manager Rick had never bothered to tell Morty anything about himself, and as he continued to open up and shared his honest emotions, the gesture of kindness wasn’t lost on the teen.

“Before I came to the Citadel, I used to value people on their intelligence and their autonomy. Which meant, like most Ricks, I only ever bothered to value myself. Now, I value kindness, and connection, a hell of a lot more. That's gotta say a lot about my collective self. The tenets of our existence. I didn't want to be here like the rest of ‘em either, but I’m better off for it.”

He mused, washing down his wafer with a gulp of soda. “Being Citadel livestock is a good life if you can forget that, for the most part, we’re rotating in a giant gilded fishbowl in space.”

“Why did _you_ come to the Citadel?”

The Rick shrugged and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, and again stared off into the distance, before returning and admitting with an embarrassed grin.

“I got scammed, Rick dating site.” Although he smiled, his expression was indescribably complex for a near imperceptible moment.

“Thought I was in love...It hit hard and fast. Portaled in for a date, and the Rickhole stole my gun, my identity, and left me with their life as the manager of the Morty Mart.”

“What’d you do?” Morty asked, curiosity getting the better of him. His supervisor dismissively shrugged, as if he were relating just another tragic tale from the Citadel.

“I was tracking the Rickhole, trying to get mine, but most Ricks don't know what to do with their freedom, and a few Earth months later he killed himself– killed me, really– cementing my life here. But I was headed in the same direction, and I like to think _that_ part of me died with him...Guess you could say it was one of those whole _‘laugh, I nearly died’_ bits.”

“...How can you forgive someone for that?”

“–Fuck forgiveness –bullshit religious manipulation tactic leaving the person who was wronged feeling like it’s _their_ job to forgive and forget, else _it’s their fault_ for all the negative emotions they experience going forward. _Fuck that_ . If I forgave anyone in this life it was myself. I moved forward because _I_ chose to.”

The entire time Morty had known his manager, the man had never been in a serious relationship, and the redhead couldn’t help but speculate that this might be the reason why. He never seemed discontent about being single, but Morty couldn’t help but wonder if he ever wanted more. The manager of the Morty Mart carefully reached out and ruffled the tresses of Morty’s hair, the complicated expression having returned to his face, and he spoke seriously to the teen.

“Don’t take responsibility for another Rick’s shit, Morty. Don’t forgive whatever Rickhole beat the shit out of you so that you can absolve _their_ guilt. Move forward by being honest with yourself, and make your choices based on that– And, when you make a few bad calls – and you will – forgive yourself for having the eggs to have taken the risk in the first place.”

While his manager insisted that he forgave himself for getting scammed, he never once mentioned that he had forgiven himself for falling in love with a Rick who had taken everything from him.

“Do you...regret it?” Morty hesitantly asked. “Falling in love? I mean...”

The older man set his mug down, folding his arms as he leaned against the counter to stare into the distance again as an addictive smile warmed his face at the thought. He chuckled in a sudden seeming fit of madness as he returned his gaze to the redhead.

“It’s like these wafers, kid. We’re addicted to the idea, one that will always be impossible to obtain, but fuck if that isn't why Ricks love ‘em all the more. Still wanna have it for a moment. There was never really a relationship for me to hold onto, I fell in love with the potential that existed only in my head. Not what it actually was, but that’s what made it such a rush... As irrational as it is, I'd do it all over again. Love’s one hell of a drug, Morty. An intense but fleeting high... I've become what you'd call a chipper, now; I've learned to use without becoming addicted.”

“Is that even possible for a Rick?”

“Eh, we’re all addicted to the things that take the pain away...Ricks and addictive lifestyles never really mixed... we don't know what we want, let alone what to do with ourselves once we finally fucking have something that feels like it should be impossible.”

He finished off his wafer with a self-aware smirk, fully cognizant of the moment's irony. Morty sighed as he returned the wafer to its place on the shelf, done with substances for the time being.

“I don’t know what I want anymore.”

“Hmm, well, seems like you know what you _don’t_ want, at least. Might as well start there. Fucking up on the Citadel, has always been high stakes, but learn to give yourself a break– be kind to yourself...I mean, what would life be if we all didn't fuck up every once in a while, yeah?”

***

 

 _And another one bites the dust  
_ _But why can I not conquer love?_

 

Morty glanced woefully around the wake of destruction in his shabby, tumultuous apartment. The furniture had been knocked over, and the concentration of chaos followed the scene through a string of items in disarray across the floor. His gaze grated against the broken pieces of his lamp that trailed across the room, and with a quick flick of his eyes the teen stole a glance toward the bathroom door, broken in two, and just as quickly looked away from it, not wanting to revisit the memory.

His front door hadn’t been locked. He had found it left ominously cracked open; Morty could see the glow of the TV flickering in the small room when he cautiously reached out to bat it open, his stomach tight in anticipation, but there had been no one on the other side, leaving the space with a haunted feeling.

He stepped into the center of it and righted the chair, before catching sight of the broken record player on the floor, and remembering the events that had taken place a few nights prior as his palms grew sweaty. A vision of Rick’s bottomless eyes stared into him as his hands dragged him across the floor into their depths.

Morty screamed in anger, kicking his bare foot into the turntable, and then cried out at the pain that flared across his big toe. His eyes burned as he chastised himself for being so _stupid_. He didn’t know what he had expected. He should have known better. He couldn’t break something that had already been broken.

 

That was what he had told R, at least.

 

He glanced around the room again, sinking to the floor as he felt the last bit of motivation expend itself with the short burst of anger. It all felt pointless. Somehow, his life had become a magnet for chaos, and when he existed inside of its spinning chaotic embrace he didn't have to confront anything about who he was. He needed only to allow himself to be strung along the path of someone else's existence.

 

Morty wasn't sure he wanted to wake up to this reality.

 

The redhead didn’t know who he was anymore, and as he buried his face into his knees, folding his arms around himself in what could only feel like the most pathetic and lonely hug, Morty questioned at what point he had become an empty space to be filled by whatever Rick who wanted to saturate his existence with their commands.

And now, without a Rick to do even that, he questioned at what point he stopped being good enough to use.

He heaved panicked tears as his thoughts brushed against his deepest fears.

 

_You’re not enough._

_You were never enough._

 

Everything was shit.

He gave up on trying to clean anything and sat on the floor of his small apartment, not knowing where to even begin.

Not even knowing how to tell himself to do it.

His grandfather always held a humbling ability to make Morty feel hope that things could change for the better. That Morty could change _him_. Hope that, after all the things the redhead had done, Rick would always love him.

But all love ever was was a bunch of stupid chemicals, and Morty realized he had become addicted to feeling like he was in love.

He further lowered himself to lay onto the cold, metal floor of his unwanted reality and curled tightly into a ball, wasting what felt like hours escaping into the memory of his grandfather’s smile, the exact way it made him feel– the stars in his cosmic blue eyes.

All it had ever done was make the loss more painful to bear, because Morty couldn't let him go, but also because he didn't want to. He wasn't ready to.

 

The memories that consumed him were all he had left.

He was nothing without his grandfather.

 

“I want to look for you in every person I love.”

Morty quietly confessed, considering, as he had in the Morty Mart, that maybe he had only ever been looking for the idea of what his grandfather’s love had once meant to him.

His grandfather had denied him the independence he might have, at one point, been ready for, and now, when he most needed it, Morty wasn’t ready to grow or move forward from this. He wasn’t even sure if his anger was his own anymore, or if even it, too, was cultivated by his grandfather’s hands. He sobbed into the empty spaces of the apartment he had never fully thought of as home.

 

“I’m not ready to fix what’s broken.”

 

Brokenness was all that had ever made itself known to Morty, and despite everything that had happened, some small part of his fragmented self had been hoping he'd find Labcoat Rick when he’d returned. It didn't make any sense, but he wanted the Rick to come back, and simultaneously wanted him to disappear from his life forever.

Morty knew that he couldn’t rationally have both of those things, but, deep down, he also knew that the broken part of him that wanted Labcoat Rick to find him was also the same part of him trying his best to survive in a world without his grandfather.

It had looked like love, and it felt like love, but in the center of the spinning chaos of it all, there was nothing, so empty that it had made Morty unable to feel anything at all.

 

Morty had been so afraid of being alone that it didn't matter.

 

Alone, he was forced to acknowledge the self that existed without his grandfather, and it was alone where he realized that he couldn’t stand to be in his own presence.

After he’d been relocated to Morty Town, he was so lost, and he’d felt so entirely out of place. Alone with the other Rickless Mortys on the Citadel, where he could only see the worst of himself.

He didn’t like the person Mortys became without a Rick, and rationalized that anything was better than being alone, that the physical pain of abuse was preferable to having to feel the emotional pain of loneliness.

 

He was nothing without a Rick.

 

There were a lot of red flags about most of the Ricks Morty had chosen to be with. He didn’t give them much thought or consideration, and ignored the warning signs, too desperate to see them. His rose-tinted worldview made every red flag look more like his grandfather.

 

Each time, needed to believe _this time_ would be different.

 

Where his relationships should have ended, Morty had been too afraid to let them go, continuing to believe in them with blind faith until he loved them to pieces, and the illusion was, once again, shattered. Then, Morty jumped into the arms of the next, never slowing down or taking the time to look back at the wake of destruction he had left. If they were not doomed to become toxic and abusive because of incompatibility, there was no doubt in Morty's mind that his fearful, desperate mindset had poisoned them to grow into such things.

 

_It was his fault._

 

Labcoat Rick had only been the most recent. He’d taken on a labcoat after he had lost his own Morty and, together, they’d found common ground in the mutual, unspoken acknowledgment that, regardless of whatever relationship they would form together, it would never replace what had been their most important. They were both looking for what they had lost in the other.

 

Sometimes the feelings were genuine.

Sometimes they were no more than a manipulation.

 

Most of the time, they were grieving, and it was hard to unblur those lines and discern between what sometimes felt like two indistinguishable actions.

He pulled himself up from the floor, and climbed over the pieces of the bathroom door with a sudden, urgent desire to take a shower.

The redhead shed his clothing, and returned himself onto the ground, continuing to hug the pieces of himself into his chest as he felt the sting of far too hot water cleanse his body, sluicing the dirt and blood he could rid himself of.

 

Although painful, his skin had been burning long before the water began to touch him.

The truth was that Morty had always been escaping from himself into relationships.

 

Searching for his idea of love was the ultimate distraction from truly seeing himself, but R had been the first Rick to interrupt that pattern. Morty wasn’t sure if that made him different anymore, but R was the first Rick who wanted Morty to exist as his own person. R didn't want to change Morty, and he didn't want Morty to change for him.  

 

_“It’s not about being together, Morty! I can’t trust you to not lose sight of who you are when you’re with me, and I can’t trust myself to not want to take everything from you because you have a shitty baseline and a basically non-existent sense of self.”_

_“I'm too selfish to use love responsibly, kid. I just wanna get off on it. If I developed some co-dependent addiction – you'd become my personal substance to abuse.”_

_“You won’t be strong enough to stop me from doing exactly that.”_

 

_“I’m not a good person, Red. I’m gonna ruin you.”_

 

 

R had asked Morty what he genuinely wanted.

Morty said he _wanted_ R to be different.

 

It was Morty, in the end, who hadn't been honest with himself, and R had seen through it from the beginning. Morty wondered if he’d always been so obvious, to all the Ricks who had entered into his life and used his brokenness to their advantage.

It wasn't that he _thought_ R was different than the other Ricks, but he wanted his relationship with him to _be_ different.

However, Morty had been in so many bad relationships that his mindset of what they _should_ be had become warped, and if Morty couldn’t see that distortion, then whatever he thought he had wanted with R was doomed to repeat itself from the moment it began. Doomed to turn into another toxic, abusive relationship, and Morty didn’t know how to change that.

 

_“I want you to be different!”_

 

A series of shaky breaths spilled from Morty as he emptied the shampoo bottle onto himself, washing away the clotted chunks of dried blood from his hair with the smell of strawberry. R had looked so shocked. The teen saw his grandfather, and wondered how a person so wise, so loving, could transform like that.

Suddenly, he panicked as the vibrant smell of smoke filling his lungs returned to his senses. His face was pressed into the dark fabric, wet beneath his cheeks. He squeezed the remaining shampoo onto his shaking hands and tried to focus his senses on the strawberry.

 

_“If you want me to fucking prove it to you, I will. You want me to claim you like you're my fuckin’ property? Treat you as less than? A hole to fuck because you can fucking handle it?”_

 

Was that what Morty had wanted? He felt his lip quiver, remembering the vicious anger in R’s voice.

 

_“Looks like I need to fucking rein you in, Red-shirt. Remind you how this works.”_

 

From the moment the older man had pressed himself against his flesh with the same conviction as that of Labcoat Rick, only a few hours before, Morty knew that R wasn’t going to stop, and, true to his promise, with the teen facing away from him, he entered into Morty’s body with a devotion only to himself.

 

_“Th-this is the only thing you understand– D-does it hurt Morty? Is this what you want? Something like this to be what defines a loving relationship.”_

_“I need to teach you a lesson, Red.”_

 

It wasn't that different.

 

_“This is all you're good for.”_

 

Carefully, he rinsed, then filled the shampoo bottle with hot water, before pressing it against his entrance and flushing himself with the makeshift enema. The purifying water burned satisfyingly as it pushed through him.

 

_R held Morty away from him, crying as he fucked his body to make a point._

_R held Morty against him, moaning in pleasured anguish when they both started to want each other, despite._

 

As he let the water wash over him, he second-guessed his emotions, feeling ashamed and guilty, not fully understanding how he was supposed to feel about it all. _–_ How R had wanted him to feel about it. _–_ He had wanted R, and R had wanted him.

R had given in and forced himself on Morty, and in doing so, he had accepted the redhead, but the teen hadn’t intended for such an acceptance to hurt R in the way that it had. R hadn't enjoyed hurting Morty like the others had, and Without saying anything, he’d run away from everything. He didn’t want to see that his relationship had fallen apart, once again.

 

He didn’t want to admit that he was back where he started.

 

_“Please...Don’t come back here, Morty.”_

 

How long had he been washing his hair? He leaned his head into the stream of lukewarm water, rinsing himself.

Maybe Morty was too broken to make love with R.

Maybe in Church he’d already made love with R.

 

_“It’s the difference between getting off and getting high.”_

 

Morty watched the mixture of bloodstained water and semen from two seemingly indistinguishable ideas as they swirled toward the drain.

 

_“You’re not enough.”_

 

He couldn’t remember what exactly his grandfather sounded like. After so many versions of him, all Ricks sounded the same. The tones of their voices blended into a single idea, but it had always made him unable to discern that which was in his own mind, real to him, and that as it actually was, outside of it.

Morty hallucinated his grandfather’s words with a sense of detachment. His consciousness, fragmented and falling apart, as he heard himself apologizing to the voice that only he could hear, unsure if he were even remembering it correctly.

 

_“It’s your fault.”_

 

He dug nails into his arm as the water bounced off his skin. Thoughts echoed from the tiled walls and reverberated into his being.

 

_R never wanted you_

 

Maybe his grandfather should have been more thorough with him. After all, it was Morty’s fault that his grandfather was not here. Whatever he had been trying to do with his grandson didn’t work like it should have. It didn’t work because Morty was still broken. He had always known he was broken.

 

_You wanted to let it happen_

 

Morty had always known that R was a Rick. He didn’t know what else he should have expected to happen. R had told him that it would happen, and Morty asked R to prove it. R had been trying to teach him a lesson. It was Morty’s fault for not having learned it by now. He couldn’t learn it because he was broken.

But he had stayed when Morty had asked him to.

He had told Morty that he was sorry.

He cried with him.

Morty pressed the heels of his palm against his head and let out a scream, interrupting the voice of his thoughts, and shouted toward the amalgamation of his abusers until the sound in his throat churned like stones of gravel, painfully crunching against each other.

The only iteration of his grandfather’s voice that remained was Morty's own.

 

_R hadn’t been sorry enough to stop._

 

Morty's throat tightened at the confession and he cried anew. He mourned the relationship he wished he had with R, he grieved the loss of never really having one with him to begin with.

He could stand the familiar feeling of his own brokenness, but feeling those pieces of himself separate and fall apart had suddenly, for the first time in his life, become too much.

He cried until the tears stopped and the water ran cold, and then he stepped out of the shower, over the blood stained towel from a few days before, found a new pair of pants, and returned the used red shirt to his body, feeling like the familiar fraying threads were the only thing holding him together.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and paused to stare at the stranger gazing back at him. The Morty touched the warm flesh of his cheek before threading fingers through the shock of red hair. He didn’t look broken.

When he finally came to the realization that the exhausted Morty staring back was him, he resisted the urge to shatter his reflection to remedy that. He didn’t want to hurt himself, however, and didn’t want another mess to clean up, which meant that, deep down, the teen must have still valued some broken piece of himself.  

He climbed back over the pieces of the broken bathroom door into the heart of his still too-quiet, too-empty apartment, and released a sigh, the weight of his entire body, as he glanced around with acceptance, at the reality that he was still there, and so was the mess that had been made of his life.

 

One painfully sharp-edged piece at a time, he attempted to put something back together.

 

He cleaned up the mess of alcohol bottles and the piles of garbage that had accumulated in the ashen room, and returned the rest of the displaced items to where they lived. Then, he stacked the pieces of the bathroom door neatly against the wall, and tossed the bloodied towels.

Cautiously, his eyes took in the stain on the wall, and Morty pressed his fingers against the still-tender, itchy wound, realizing with an acute awareness that his skin had caught on a nail. He clenched his eyes shut at the vivid remembrance of being thrown against it.

 

He couldn’t clean that today.

He wouldn't be able to fully think about that night for a while.

 

 

When it came to the record player, he felt too despondent to try and fix it, but wasn’t ready to throw it away either, so he tucked all the peices neatly and with care into a small box, setting it on the seat of his chair with the intent to forget about it for the time being.

Morty dragged the garbage bags to the door, pausing to look back into the room. It was still a mess, but it was much less of one, and the small accomplishment gave the teen comfort, and allowed him to hope that some things could get better.

All that remained was the hardest part. He sat, cross-legged, on the dark metal floor of his apartment and carefully unwrapped the Woodstock t-shirt that he had stolen from the record store. He arranged the large pieces of the wooden box in front of him, and carefully spread out the glass pieces on the fabric, surveying the damage, as he glanced toward the numerous small cuts on his fingers from so desperately grabbing after them.  
  
He had blindly grabbed the cloth as he fled from Church. Even in pieces, the wooden Church box had become too important to Morty to leave behind, and the teen didn’t know if he would return to the record store. There wasn’t much time to think about it.

Morty knew nothing of R’s life in his dimension of origin, but he didn’t need to in order to suspect that this box had been with the stoner through some of the most important parts of it.

The only thing the older man had ever told him about the box, was that it had been Church in his home dimension. Now, after it had reminded Morty of so many things he had forgotten, in the moment that he most needed to remember them, the teen understood what R meant by that statement.

He examined the fragmented pieces as a cutting feeling of guilt sliced into him with each thought. He couldn’t help but feel that everything between them had, since, similarly, been shattered.

At first he had wanted to fix it, out of fear that the record store owner would hate him, but as he began to see himself in the fragmented pieces that were covered in his own blood, Morty selfishly understood that he wanted to put the pieces back together for himself, even more.

 

Even broken, it still meant something to him.

Even broken, he still wanted for it to mean something to R.

 

He wasn’t sure how the idea of Church was any different from the idea of love, and he wondered if he had just fallen under the ideological spell of another Rick. Honestly, the teen didn’t know if he was making another bad decision out of blind, self-interested faith.

But R had entrusted him to take care of the Church box, and the teen’s life wreaked absolute havoc on it. R was forced to watch as the totem was sanctimoniously destroyed, and Morty hadn’t been able to forget the moment of R’s pained expression as he sharply turned his gaze away.

Then, in Church, R had similarly attempted to destroy everything they had together in an act of ceremonious self-destruction.

Morty had shown Manager Rick the mistake he had wanted to fix, and his supervisor let out a low trailing whistle, before offering a _good luck kid_ , suggesting that the redhead leave work early and give it his best shot. With a shaky hand, he held the glue his supervisor had lent him, with the encouragement that if any kind of glue could fix it, it was this.

He grabbed the biggest wooden piece of the box, and hesitated, clutching the bottle of adhesive in his hands, gripped by a moment of absolute, paralyzing fear, dreading the thought of what might happen if he couldn’t fix it. Or worse, if he fixed it incorrectly, and R hated that he had dared to even try.

 

_“Please...Don’t come back here, Morty.”_

What if R wanted it to stay broken?

 

Morty always tried to fix the relationships he had been in by changing himself, and it was easy for him to become anything, when he had always only ever been a blank slate. Trying to be whatever he thought the current Rick had wanted him to be, Morty never tried to change himself, because it was what _he_ wanted.

In Church, it was different. When they got high together, the teen never felt like he needed R’s love to feel like he existed, because the stoner had accepted all of him, regardless, and the small smoke room, filled with lava lamps and vibrant art, had become Morty’s place to mentally center himself as the Citadel spun around him. The teen hadn’t changed, as much as he had begun to re-discover who he was, _before_ he had started changing.

High on mind-altering substances, and holding hands together in the Church where time stood still, Morty experienced the elusive and ethereal essence of his self, alongside R, and in the innocuous spaces of those small moments, his perspective changed.

 

In that way, maybe they had already met each other.

 

Morty wanted R to know him _._ To unflinchingly bear witness to his brokenness, and in turn, he wanted to know R. Not as he wished him to be, not as who he wasn't, but as he really, truly was.

Broken and sobbing at the ruinous foundation of Church, they’d reached across the destruction, and held each other’s hands in invitation. Their fingers slipped into the broken spaces between them, dovetailing their existences together in a flinching, terrified acknowledgement of their own sharp edges, but they’d searched for each other, despite, because the inviolable idea they had experienced together was still worthy of veneration.  

 

Morty stood, for the first time, on something solid and real, even as he was surrounded by its fragmented, sawtooth edges.

 

The hardest part was choosing to move forward, knowing that despite his best efforts, he would move against the sharp edges of his own existence.

Life would move on with or without him, and if he couldn’t accept that pain was part of the process of living, then like R, he would remain trapped against the broken pieces of life, unable to act at all.

The truth of Church, was that it was intangible, and it’s essense moved and lived in the spaces between them, where even here, in the moment currently unfolding, Morty felt its significance in the broken fragments of a relic that had once symbolized such meaning.

 

The meaning of the wooden Church box now belonged to them.

 

Despite everything that had happened, Morty wanted their broken pieces to be held together.

He took a leap of faith, and pressed the glue against the fragmented edge.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A Note on Trauma and Resiliency:** One of the explorations of this fic is the various ways in which people deal with trauma. In this fic, Morty is much more resilient to experiences of trauma, but it's much harder for R to move forward. This isn't to compare R or Morty's personalities as better or worse than, or to lessen the traumatic experiences of either, but to explore each of them as their own unique experience. A reason for the POV shifting in this fic is to demonstrate those flaws, as well as their own unreliable narratives.
> 
>  **But He Can Change!** We meet R and Morty both at a dangerous cusp of character growth. The implication of a phrase like “I can change”, is an awareness that a pattern already exists at that point. It's very intentional that R holds no such assumptions up-front about his ability to change, while Morty insists he can, and this dynamic touches on their complementary outlooks of pessimism and optimism. 
> 
> However, my self-aware disclaimer is that Morty deciding to return to R, especially so quickly, is not a healthy decision. In the context of this fic, what's important to recognize is that Morty made the self-aware decision for himself, which represents a character growth for him. R is not going to so easily accept it, because of Morty’s history with abuse. 
> 
> **Dangerously Optimistic:** A terrifying number of victims return to their abusers with the dangerously optimistic mindset of starting over that Morty holds onto in this chapter. Many abusers promise that they can change, or that their partner can change them, and a big part of this fic is exploring the idea of actual change: what it would look like for R, who doesn't think change is possible, to change and grow. What it looks like for Morty, who fully believes in change, to create real and lasting change. Both explorations are necessary to get this fic to the still problematic but healthy and works for them relationship endgame I'm promising. But this slice of life story tries to demonstrate that actual character growth and reflection is a hard process, and often, it can become an insidious pipe dream for those in abusive relationships, that keeps them trapped within it.
> 
>  **Conflating Dissociation with Experiencing a High:** Morty is experiencing dissociation as he attempts to proceed through his routines on autopilot. This fic explores the similarities and differences between the experience of dissociation and the experience of feeling high. Where one is a self-induced measure of escape, the other is a recreational escape. Comparing the two inadvertently reflects on many ideas about R, his preference for weed over alcohol, and his reliance on it. 
> 
> **Cranes in the Sky (2016):** I thought the tone and theme of the song fit this moment very well.  
> “I was just coming out of my relationship with Julez's father. We were junior high school sweethearts, and so much of your identity in junior high is built on who you're with. You see the world through the lens of how you identify and have been identified at that time. So I really had to take a look at myself, outside of being a mother and a wife, and internalize all of these emotions that I had been feeling through that transition.”
> 
>  **Elastic Heart (2013):** Morty is having to assess and re-evaluate both himself, and his past and present relationships, in order to move forward, and it is a painful awakening. The contradiction of “fighting for peace” shows how love is inherently a battle – between two people or sometimes internally. Every time Sia falls in love, she finds herself being pulled apart by the toll of the relationship, describing the idea as “These two warring 'Sia' self states of emotion and reason.”


	15. A Fresh Poison Each Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Never let it be doubted that depression in its most extreme form, is madness.” – William Styron, Darkness Visible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** I’m gonna warn for some Rick-typical alcohol abuse in this chapter, and R’s thoughts in late-stage depression as well as **active** suicide ideation. There will also be a flashback of Morty’s original Rick, where we learn how he died. Also, an almost bar fight with physical violence, some hard drug use, and Citadel-typical apathy and lack of concern around R’s spiraling nihilistic state of mind. 
> 
> **General TWs:** Suicide Ideation, Alcohol Abuse, Discussion of Rape, Grunge-themed Dive Bar, Physical Violence (Bar Fight), Suggestion of Suicide, Mentions of Suicide, Hard Drug Usage, Late-State Depression, Active Suicide Ideation. _**Flashback of:** _ Domestic Argument, Threats of Suicide, Suicide Pact, Grooming, Gaslighting  
>   
>  Spoiler Summary Feature is Disabled. Click "Show Creator's Style" at the top of this page to activate. (Mobile Friendly)

_Oh green fairy what you done to me!  
I see Lucy in the sky, telling me I'm high._

 

Long ago, R would have surrendered his sanity – embraced the chaos of his own madness, were he not afraid of the flickering lights of lucidity within it.

Which was why, if R had to define the way that he abused alcohol, it would fall under the category of binge drinker. The liquid fire, thirsty like hellhounds for his blood, never tasted as smooth on the way down as when he invited himself to burn – like a martyr to his own inherited limitations – having nothing left to fear but the light in the darkness of his own mind.

 

Ultimately, it was a confession of his existence.

 

It was a universal truth understood by the worst addicts on the Citadel, and despite his general avoidance of _alcohol,_ R’s disposition, invariably, fell victim to the ethereal nature of substance abuse.

He chased the white rabbit of proleptic degradation, knowing he would inevitably find himself falling over the sharp edges of his mind as he stumbled in spirals after it, all the way down.

In the end, R was only poignantly reminded that he was never an exception.

Selfishly, he only ever cared about numbing himself enough to turn off for _one fucking second_ , and the truth – cold and uncaring as the void, was that he never really _wanted_ to change. Like the worst self-aware junkies on the Citadel, he’d only ever been holding out, trying to minimize the pain until the moment it was all over.

The misguided dead-end line of thought which all Ricks fell victim to was the desperate attempt to rationalize to himself that if _nothing mattered_ , then nothing could hurt.  

But, even deeper down, his unending stream of consciousness swirled with the sentient undercurrents of his chaotic existence. He listened to the circular, rhythmic pulse of his heart, willing the seconds to pass, the quiet inertia of each agonizing beat bleeding within the open wound of his being that refused to heal. 

Numbing himself to that pain didn’t mean he stopped bleeding.

 

_Don’t think._

 

He brandished the glistening badge of identity from his overshirt pocket, the cynical symbol of cyclical compulsive habit, and in a grim kiss, brought the sharp metallic taste of the flask’s lip against his own.

Proof 322 was the most potent liquor available for purchase in the Citadel. It glowed, hypnotically, with the likeness of the radioactive isotope it was named after, selling the portal-like promise of escape from the Emerald City.

For Ricks, the only truly unapproachable concept was that of choice: the idea that, even in the darkness of a harrowing, deterministic existence, there still existed a sentient mind which remained in their individual control.

 _Just once,_ R wanted to make a self-aware choice that would break him free of the default gravitational orbit of being deeply and literally self-centered on the Citadel. He kept the flask in his record store, enjoying the quotidian, inconsequential choice to deny the symbolic libation of self. Like Absinthe, most Ricks were dumb or desperate enough to chase the green fairy of latent madness straight –over the rainbow– rather than dilute it.  

R supposed he couldn’t call it alcohol poisoning if his blood was already thin with toxicity.

He tilted his head backwards and closed his eyes in a prayer of fatalistic acceptance, smart enough to know there was never any difference.

 

Ricks hated themselves. 

Rick hated himself.

 

He couldn't change.

 

There was no dark side of the moon, only the piercing lucid moments of a half-remembered self trapped in the darkness.

“Run rabbit run.” R remembered to breathe, scrubbing away the lingering trail of alcohol on his lips. He pocketed the flask in his overshirt pocket, and left the record store with a liberating sense of freedom.

Intending to abandon everything in his life that had at one point seemed to matter, he passed the pair of pushers on his pilgrimage to burrow into the darkest hole he could find. Rick leaned against the storefront window next to his silent partner, and leered toward R’s alarmingly uncharacteristic change in routine, pointing an insinuating statement between them. 

“Shame we don’t sell the most readily available substance on the Citadel, Morty...” He spoke with a sideways glance to his silent partner, keeping his stone-faced expression, cemented with a knowing disapproval, fixed on R. The stoner indifferently ignored the statement as his bare feet continued to carry him down the current of the street.

“R, are you uh.. a-are you good?”

His steps fell still at hearing the soft-spoken voice of a Morty call out to him. It didn’t belong to _him_ , but the identical characteristics of the tone immediately seized his heart with a deep ache, despite R’s insistence of apathy.

His hand fell over the piece of metal curving over his heart and, carefully, he looked over his shoulder to the normally quiet teen. Their eyes met for a pointed moment, before R quickly turned away with an irritated shrug of his shoulders, wondering how anyone could honestly answer such a shallow and trite fucking question.

He bit his lip, however, unable to form a response, because the meaning Morty had silently expressed around the sound of his uncharacteristic words was concern. He wasn’t asking if R was _okay_ –they both fucking knew that R _wasn’t good–_ Morty was asking for unspoken reassurance, and R was struck silent in the presence of his own dark, foreboding thoughts, which imagined with absolute conviction that the encounter currently unfolding between them would be their last.

 

He was too selfish to lie to another Morty.

 

He took a deep breath and returned to his walk with an increased pace, his mind further dissolving with each step.

 

 

As R passed the various iterations of himself, each going about their daily routines in Sanchez Slums, he couldn't help but bitterly take in the infinite attempts of the multiverse to make his collective self nothing more than slight variations of the same pre-determined, fucked up piece of shit– _todos los caminos lead to Rick_ , he supposed, as he moved ever so slightly off the well-worn Citadel streets.

Although it had what locals liked to call _personality_ , the disreputable dive bar was an archetypal looking dead-end hole in the wall, wedged between the Heights and Morty Town. Only a few blocks from the R’s record store, locals had taken to calling the daybar Rick’s Tavern, but no such signage would be found to direct patrons to the cheap beer inside.  

Most bars on the Citadel didn’t really need to advertise to all the local persons, panhandlers, and prostitutes within a mile radius.

The exterior was layered in enough pollock-esque graffiti that the presentation could easily pass as some sort of abstract-expressionist mural. Displaying brick, wood, and metal, the Earth-portaled business from the industrial era was older than its surrounding structures by decades. Nested alongside it was an adjacent, equally run-down music venue, and neighboring the sketchier part of Sanchez Heights, against the edge of Morty Town, a shabby Rick Motel quintessentially slotted itself into place among the string of Rickstablishments.

Naming it a “Motel” was a nice way for the Citadel to offer encouragement to the Ricks that their stay at rock-bottom was only temporary.

But, sure enough, the motel always seemed to have an open room. R considered the logistics, continuing on his way.

As R passed by a small parking lot– whose collective vehicular value, he mentally calculated, could not have been worth more than one of his decent records– a puff of crimson red hair bobbed toward him from the opposite direction, and at the sight of the unmistakable mess, R stumbled into a reactive panic, and directed his gaze toward the ground, continuing to tread, barefoot through the court of the crimson king.

 

_Don’t look at me._

 

He pleaded to himself under his breath, as if the willfully arrogant act of burrowing his head into a hole of thought could change his reality.

“R?” The melodic voice questioned, and the record store owner pinched his lips in refrain. R continued to walk past the teen and, with increasing dread, heard the small sound of footsteps turn to follow him. He paused, continuing to clench his eyes shut.

“I…I asked you to stay out of my life.” 

“Come back to Church with me. Let’s...I dunno, talk or get high, or...something?” 

R grimaced at the pleading suggestion, wondering why the redhead would ever want to see the inside of that room or him ever again. He balled his fists tightly in his jean pockets, itching to burn away his emotions with liquid fire.

Ingrained into his identity was the intuitive knowledge that more alcohol would _not_ solve his problems, but R was no longer looking for a solution so much as he was seeking out the most potent device of his own self-destruction, and in alcohol, especially for a Rick, there existed an incomparably poetic annihilation of self.

It had been a long time since he so fiercely wanted to drink himself to oblivion, convinced that if everything in his existence was blurry and distorted, then something might come into focus and finally make some fucking sense. 

“There’s nothing to talk about kid, I...”

When he dared turn his body and lift his gaze toward Morty, his words faltered once again. He let them fall silent, unable to lie to the redhead who now held his gaze with dense flowering eyes that set a consuming hellfire to his chest.

The teen inched toward the stoner's unfinished sentence, abandoned at the end of the sidewalk, and, once again, R’s line of sight sharply fell toward the ground, crashing between them.

“R, what happened…I wanted-” Morty continued R’s thoughts, pausing in hesitation. “I-It...doesn't matter.”

R laughed bitterly toward the delirious statement. While the idea that nothing mattered was _technically_ accurate, _if_ one choose the lens of an impersonal cosmic perspective, human experience was incontrovertibly subjective. Meaning would exist, despite R's desperate insistence that it didn’t.

“Y-yeah?” He scoffed, gritting his teeth. “What fucking Rick _cared_ enough to shove that nihilistic bullshit up your ass?”

“Aw jeez, R, I’m just trying to tell you it’s okay!”

“No! It’s not okay,” R exasperated. “Even within _my own_ shitty, self-imposed moral system of meaning, I’m still nothing more than a fucking Rick, kid. I–”  

“R–” Morty insisted, as he continued to call the stoner by name– the identity he _thought_ could make him different. It flared red-hot, spoken on the redhead’s tongue. R hissed and painfully brought his gaze around once more, deserving to feel every second of himself burning.

“I _raped_ you. Does that word even mean _anything_ to you? Cause I-I can– l can tell you what it means to me.”

He watched the teen's feet visibly and uncomfortably shift at R’s sharp words, and the record store owner pressed his gaze further inwards before continuing with a dull voice, his anger extinguished as quickly as it had come, consumed by the deeper feelings of apathy and self-hatred he was sinking deeper into.

“I think the _only_ thing you really have is a self, Morty. I think the only thing you really have is choice over yourself… I _chose_ to violate your body. I _chose_ to take your choice away– to-to make a point, and _the whole fucking point was that nothing_ about it, _nothing_ about _us_ is or ever will be okay.”

He swallowed the tangled mess of his thoughts knotting in his throat.

 

_I’m not okay_

 

R no longer wanted to feel himself bleeding out on the sidewalk, and motioned towards the bar. Once more, Morty denied him, interrupting his intentions by stepping into the current of his path, reaching out to catch his arm. The record store owner stilled before returning himself to the honey and clover-hued gaze that trickled warmth into the small touch.

“But, what if _that’s_ okay, R? Th-That we're both fucked. That we're not...okay?”

Morty had used a serum for the worst of the damage, that much was clear as the artificial day, but while the bruises had, for the most part, faded, his face was still slightly swollen, and held a soft asymmetrical shape. R’s eyes flicked toward the redheads naked throat, which had earlier held his violent fingerprints.

 _“How_ is that okay? _For you_ , Morty? I _meant_ to hurt you. To try'n sabotage whatever feelings you had for me. I tried to _force you_ to see it my way– cause _clearly_ that fucking worked. Yeah, I forgot how _fucked_ in the head we all made you, kid. I–”

“–R, you're being an ass. Just– stop. Stop trying to run away like this!” The record store owner fell silent at the confrontation as the teen held him with a quiet determination. Morty knew exactly what R was doing, his shit wasn’t so unique on the Citadel that the teen hadn’t been made to shovel it before. Morty knew all Ricks had ever been able to do was run and hide. Regardless, Morty continued to offer encouragement to the record store owner.

“You can have emotions in front of me, too.”

R sighed, the smoke of his thoughts snuffing out the fire of his emotions, too exhausted to continue. A walking contradiction, he told himself it didn’t matter.  

 

He’d never been able to change anything.

 

“You deserve to be better than me, kid.” He expressed a painful, weighted sigh to no one in particular, and before it could hurt more than he could stand, R stepped around him, reaching for the entrance of the tavern.

“Hey _Rick_!” The redhead called after him, and R visibly flinched at Morty's intentional, pointed use of his name.

“Wanna know how you fix a mistake?”

R turned his gaze to linger over his shoulder, toward Morty, who glared at him with narrowed eyes, brimming with anger. He balled his hands into shaking fists at his side before shouting after him.

 

“Stop fucking yourself over!”

 

***

 

_Only when I stop to think about it_  
_I hate everything about you_  
_Why do I love you  
_ _You hate everything about me_

 

_Why do you love me_

 

He had been set up for failure. 

He had set himself up for failure.

Everything about it was extraordinarily unrealistic.

Morty, ever the optimist, thought that if he tried hard enough to make things work they would. But he was so emotionally and mentally drained, exhausted, because he had offered all of his energy into an insatiable, chaotic void.

He promised himself that he would fix it, and single-handedly shouldered their shared blame when he couldn't. Eventually, Morty so desperately wanted the circular trajectory to stop spinning that he began to ceaselessly romanticize the only solution he thought he had.

 

And, for a moment, he wished he could be like Rick.

 

_“What the fuck is wrong with you, Red?!”_

_“You know what! If-If you’re gonna criticize how I wanna do this– you can fucking– do it yourself, or I dunno, Grandpa Rick, you can– You can show me how it's done!”_

He wanted his grandfather to _really_ get it, that he was being an asshole. He wanted him to be filled with guilt and remorse. To feel just as badly, if not worse, than the teen had always been made to feel.

But the older man never apologized. If he did, his apologies were only ever a quick escape out of an emotional situation, they were never sincere or heartfelt. And Morty’s angry confrontations and demands for those things only ever allowed Rick to further justify his actions of defensiveness and denial.

_“Morty! Hold on! Once! Just once, could you use your fucking head?”_

Even as they shouted angry and malicious words toward each other, Morty had never felt more honest as he did when he was being consumed by the storm his own tempestuous emotions. 

_“Yeah, I know!– Go ahead and say it! That I can't even do something like this right!_

He screamed, from the piercing depths of his innermost thoughts, and knew, without a doubt, that in those moments, when his grandfather was mutually lashing out at him, that the condescending retort thrown back like a sharp-edged thief, would be, if nothing else, honest. It was worth enduring the pain to experience it.

_“You know what! You- you always make me feel like– like I’ll never be good enough. And maybe– maybe that’s what you believe but it doesn’t help me to fucking hear it! And if that's really how you feel, maybe you should have done a better fucking job with me!”_

_“Fucking dammit, Red! Listen to me!”_

It was the truth of what they had become, and they violently made love to it, accepting the broken, dirty, battered pieces as their sharp edges viciously tore into each other, worshiping in ecstacy at the crumbled foundation of the altar once representing everything that had ever existed between them.

Morty ripped himself away from Rick’s grasp and wailed.

 _“No! Rick! I want to leave this place._ _Even if it kills me! I don't want this anymore!”_

_“Y-you’re trying to tell me that’s what you want, Red? A fucking choice?”_

_“You gave me a fucking choice! But you were never gonna let me actually have it, were you? Were you! –I’m tired of making excuses for you! A-all your shitty, fucking coping mechanisms– I need do this! I’m done with words. It’s the time for me to act! To make a choice!”_  

Morty’s eyes leered upward into the gaze of a disillusioned reality that he had woken up to and wondered at what point their lives had grown so painfully contorted against each other. He invoked the name that had overgrown with thorns, and felt the sound of rot and decay vibrate on his tongue.

_“No! Fucking– Rick!– Let go of me! Let –Go!”_

He threw his body from the platform, fighting himself free once more from his grandfather’s restraining grip. Distantly aware that he was screaming at the top of his lungs, Morty howled, undeterred.

 

It was the only way he was able to feel anything anymore.  

 

 _“I'm fucking done!– with this Rick! I don't want to be_ _like this anymore!  Why do we keep doing this to each other!? Why? I’m just.. I’m so tired, Grandpa Rick... I can't do this anymore. I can't. fucking do this anymore!”_

Death was the only escape from Rick’s unrelenting orbit. 

Morty flailed as he shouted, screaming hysterics at the older man who had chased him through the Tourist District and onto the path of the oncoming hyperloop, completely immersed in their own reality and oblivious to the bystanders who had stilled to watch their volatile display of emotion.

_“Do it! Do it then! Get both of us out of here! That’s what you promised, right? Smartest man in the fucking universe. Fuck you– and every lie!– Everything you've ever told me!”_

Rick grabbed his arm with a fearful grip as his expression twisted into a visage of fury, but Morty anchored his weight into the ground and reached out, coiling fingers around the older man’s throat in a final, silent prayer.

_“You told me you loved me!”_

Tears began to pour from his face, and his grandfather pulled him into a suffocating embrace. 

_“You told me you loved me. You don’t– You-you love the person who loves you so much that you don’t have to love them back!”_

Morty fought hard against his hold, but the older man’s hug constricted around him, and for a moment, the Citadel stopped spinning. Time stood still as Rick, unmoving, held him, until Morty could do nothing but resign. He exhaled a shaky breath and pressed himself into the fold of the familiar, ensnaring arms.

 

He was so tired of choosing to survive.

 

_“I hate you. I hate us both...”_

 

Rick pulled away, looking down toward Morty with an indescribably complex expression, and the teen gazed into the chaotic abyss of the beautiful cosmic blues he'd long ago sacrificed himself to.

 

_“But you'd still follow me anywhere, wouldn't you, Red?”_

 

He nodded, pressing into the ether of his grandfather’s unbroken gaze, submerging himself into the endless, unforgiving depths of his eyes, where, beneath their dark surface, his emotions felt so full that they fell quiet, distorted into nothing but a nostalgic ache that took his breath away so perfectly he was drowning himself in it.

And as he continued to absently gaze into the catastrophic core of his grandfather’s being, he knew he was ready. Rick ensured that he had always been ready.

Even as Morty hated him, Rick was absolute. At the ruinous altar of their worship, the Morty, dressed in red, offered everything to the insatiable eyes that stirred like liquid fire that had long ago consumed the person he loved.

 

_“Yeah,” he swallowed, “I’d follow you anywhere...”_

 

His grandfather softly smiled in response, eyes flickering as he stared back into the teen. Knowing that his grandson held such an unequivocal level of devotion was everything, and, with an unspoken tenderness, he lifted a palm to touch Morty’s face, brushing a thumb across his cheek in a gesture that was so warm, so absolute, that Morty knew he would never forget it. He drifted a thumb across Morty's lower lip and pressed it into his flesh.

 

_“I fucked you up so good, Red...”_

 

The teen’s heart swelled in the moment, knowing it would be their last, as the older man gave voice to their thoughts with heartfelt pride.

Rick had fallen unconditionally in love with his own potential, and wanted to believe that somewhere, deep down, he’d always embodied the idea that Morty had fallen for and followed with unwavering faith and unfaltering conviction.

That even for a moment, he had been loved, as the person who Morty had always believed him to be.

 

Because Rick was nothing without him.

 

He fisted Morty's shirt, lifting the boy off the ground to bring him into a lingering press of lips, and gave Morty everything in that moment. Then, he broke their bodies apart and, with an unexpected heave, threw the teen back onto the safety of the platform.

His grandfather could never apologize.

It was only a mistake if he refused to fix it.

 

He'd never apologize for loving Morty.

 

_“Never forget that I love yo–”_

 

Against the sound of a grating metallic humm, his grandfather's existence was wiped from Morty’s vision. The hyperloop had slammed into his body, leaving behind a crimson red trail staining the tracks beneath as it carried him away.

 

_“No! No nonono, Grandpa Rick!”_

 

Morty was the only one who had promised to follow.

 

 _“Rick. Rick! GRANDPA RICK! GRANDPA!”_  

Morty's scream was silenced by the sound of the hyperloop continuing to move forward, and with each second of time that further consumed the flesh of the only person he had ever truly loved, Morty screamed into the abyss after the obliterated pieces.

He rose to his feet with every intention to follow, but some random Rick and Morty bystanders had taken hold of him, and held him back from jumping into death’s embrace. He fought against them with everything he had left, and it was only after he collapsed, exhausted on the platform, shaking with delirious sobs, that he began to scream at him instead of after him – an honest, agonizing wail into the dark existence he had suddenly found himself lost and alone in.

 

The vapid mouthpiece of an impersonal cosmic force.

 

“I hate you! I _HATE YOU!”_

 

The Rick bystander who held Morty back from his own self-destruction grew irritated with his unrestrained thrashing and knocked the teen unconscious.

 

***

 

 

“Crow, give me another, preferably one without your bartender’s jizz in it this time.”

“R– shit, you seriously fuckin’ drank that? _Come on_.” Crowbar Rick tossed his head back and groaned over the music.

“I don’t give a fuck, that’s my new catchphrase.” The words burned on his tongue as grunge music appropriately played through the dimly lit atmosphere.

R stared at the foamy head as it pulled itself to the bottom of his glass tankard. Shifting uncomfortably on the stool that had been stripped of varnish by unrelenting use. He glanced to his side as he considered moving to the next, padded but equally-worn, stool, repaired with a few lines of duct-tape. He dismissed the thought, and settled back into place, reminding himself that he had chosen the more painful option because it was what he deserved.

The regular, seedy barflies who had arrived long before R, and would stay long after, were settled into their staple wood and leather booths, sticking themselves against the walls, where decrepit chunks of plaster had fallen away in large pieces, revealing the underlying brick;  in a surprise to no one, the more-exposed-brick-than-plaster theme visually tied the place together.

The establishment’s strategic ambient lights were patron’s choice, and reliably long-term: flickering neon signs advertising the varieties of cheap beer _–Morty High Life, Genius, Tres Equis (Triple X),_ and _‘Chez Blue Ribbon–_ buzzed overhead in competition of each other, masking everything in a multicolored, phosphoric glow.

The bar’s only entrance cast a thick ray of orange light across the floor as it heavily swung open with a distressed groan, providing a short breath of ventilation that did little to abate the overall thick, musty haze of stale beer and cigarettes, the smell of which R was certain would cling to him well after closing time.

From the moment he stepped foot through the door, thinking to himself how desirably dark it looked from the street, internal emotions stirred poignantly at the contradicting, nostalgic ache of comfortable and revolting.

 

He’d forgotten how much it smelled like home.

 

 

 

 

“J-Just get me another beer and shot combo, Crow.” R shifted in his seat once more, and attempted to decline conversation with the Rick bartender, who sported a short sleeved, skin-tight muscle shirt which left little to the imagination, and plaid overshirt tied around his waist. A sleeve of solid tribal ink encroached upon the length of his arm, inviting imagery of how far the work of art continued to travel his skin beneath the fabric.     

The bartender on shift leaned forward over the bartop, a seemingly glowing slab of rosewood, and reached around R for the salty snack bowl. He slid it toward R out of curiosity, seeing if he would take the bait.

Unlike the surface of the surrounding booth tables, which were carved to hell, the single slab of 900 year-old-rosewood –one of the rarest items of salvage on the Citadel’s metal structure– was virgin, and the bartender got his name for taking a working-class crowbar to any Rick who so much as thought of maiming his _raison d'etre_.

His weapon of choice visibly and neatly perched its beak on the bright, flamed surface of the wood grain, like the darkest of omens. R shrugged his shoulders in irritation, angling his body away from the Rick, who smirked in turn and batted the snack bowl away from them. 

“Y-yeah, didn’t think you were wallowing in your shit _that_ much. Haven’t seen you in here since you set me up with that [ compact-disc jukebox ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue/playlist/6LxGxQODZFx8AKomfu688S?si=EbAGs116SWuHbpP6J4H5qA) . I put my hard-earned money on you cause of that. Now, I fuckin’– owe Allen ten bucks he _sure as hell_ doesn't need.”

“Just add it to the running tab of unforgivable sins.”   

“Sorry bud, the tab for seven dollar shots caps at seventy.”

Crow pushed himself away from R as Bartender Morty serendipitously filled his place. Exaggeratedly, he leaned forward, flashing his bowtie, whilst circling a finger on the polished wood grain. R narrowed his eyes toward half lidded flutters, and the creepy as fuck crew member bit his lip with a suspiciously raised eyebrow.

“Ahhh jeez, dawg. Hah, don’t beat yourself up about it, y’know?” He rolled across the wooden edge and tossed his head back, sighing a cheek into his open palm. “Mortys _always_ get so moody and emotional – they overreact about _everything_.”

He lifted his hand to twirl it in the air with a smirk, before walking his fingers toward the older man. “How about I serve you a ‘ _man~age aw twat_ :’ you, jack, and _me_ –”

“–I let my patrons drink what they want, R– You wanna mix some jailbait jizz with 15 year old whiskey...not my thing, but be my fucking guest.”

Crow interrupted from the far side of the bar, before turning his back to him, scooping up a set of empty glasses, drawn away to the business of another patron, sporting a mess of red hair. For a moment, R thought it was Morty, but it was only another Rick, swearing between breaths of laughter in a thick accent. 

 

 

“Gotta make eye contact and speak up, baby, else you’re a lost cause here.”

An echo of his own voice distracted R from his thoughts, as it inserted itself into the already unwanted conversation. Rick Allen approached the bar in an orange jumpsuit, smugly plucking a paper bill out of Crow’s raised fingers. He hopped onto the stool next to the record store owner, flashing him the winnings, while proceeding to knuckle the balding spot on R’s head as if he were a dog being offered positive reinforcement for _not letting him down_.

Allen mocked the record store owner’s resigned demeanor, before nudging him back into his seat, and continued the light-hearted conversation as if the ex-con were an old friend, instead of the perfect stranger he was. 

With a sigh, the tavern's newest drunk slumped onto the wood as Bartender Morty _finally_ handed him a fresh drink.

“You’ve been fucking Labcoat’s Morty...Red-shirt, right? You did a nice job with that prick – fuckin’ beating was a _long_ time comin’. But his _Morty_ ? _That’s_ the Morty you’re drinking over? Fuck, R – that feisty redhead likes getting knocked around by his Rick–”

R hurled the heavy glass tankard into the Rick’s face, knocking him from the stool and flooding the floor with Triple X. The ex-con rolled and cursed into the pain, hollering out a loud _Hoowee_ through the bar, before propping himself up on elbows to gaze back up at the Rick who had risen onto his bare feet, suddenly looking for a fight. 

“That asshole wasn’t his Rick,” R muttered under his breath, still clutching the glass knuckled handle of the tankard in-hand, and Allen swore again, rolling his eyes at the sudden change in personality.

“A-a-and let me guess, _you’re_ the asshole who’s his Rick now?”

Muttering expletives under his breath, Allen rose from the floor of the bar, and reached out to erect the duct-taped stool, rubbing a hand over his already swelling eye. He batted a dismissive hand in R’s general direction as he climbed atop his seat once more, inviting the violent drunk to join him.   

“Morty!” Crow ignored the altercation, and instead called to his assistant barkeep while he continued to serve the other patrons. “Out front! Clean up your fuckin’ watersports before my bar starts smelling like our whorehouse of a bathroom–”

“–Ai!” Allen caught the attention of the bartender with a dangerous smile. “ _Vergón papi!”_

He wrestled the tankard he had just kissed to the floor from R's hand, and slapped his recently acquired ten on the counter. Pressing both items toward Crow, Allen cocked his head toward the bar’s newest patron, who just wanted a _fucking drink._

“See?” He leaned against R, and whispered a hot breath into the flesh of his ear. “Just like that, baby.” 

Crow flipped his hair back, and tossed Allen a Ricking bitch face before unfolding his arms. He went to work, ignoring the ex-con’s cocky grin as he tossed the bar rag over his shoulder and pulled the tap lever over a fresh glass tankard.

“I should’ve let you get roofied and date-raped by this little fuckin’ creep, but your self-deprecating shit would have thought he was doing you a favor.” Allen returned his attention to R and casually threatened, loud enough that anyone within earshot could hear, “nah, we’re gonna make this old bitch work for you so your drinks are clean.” 

Crow placed a fresh, iced glass of Triple X in front of R, and as the record store owner reached for it, Allen snaked the cold beverage from his grasp, lifting it to rest against his own swollen eye. He groaned in ecstatic relief, before taking a drink from it, mildly impressed by R’s lack of reaction, a stark contrast from moments before.

“Wh-What are you, a fucking Jerry? Oh, you poor _piece of shit–_ I, for one, can’t stand the deafening silent wails of your wilting soul...” he antagonized with a hearty burp, before passing the beverage to the record store owner.

“Do us all a favor and drink up.”

R quietly wrapped his hands around the glass in silence, before reaching for his flask, and emptying a third of it into his drink to top it back off to brimming from half-empty.

The beautifully complex spirit glowed golden until the aureating stream made contact with the light ale and shimmered in swirling, verdigris colors, corroding the warm amber tones into a pulsing acidic hue that burned like the surrounding neon signs. A manifestation of his existence. The Citadel spinning around him as if he were the only thing that mattered. 

 

“Green is the color...”

 

He gave a toast to the nature of his own addictions, taking a drawn-out, indulgent gulp. Allen observed his actions before continuing the unwanted, one-sided conversation.

“Look, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret that everyone here already knows, R–”

“–Ever hear that people come to this dump to be left the fuck alone?”

 _“Dive!”_ Crow adamantly corrected, and narrowed his eyes toward R while he moved past the booths, daring him to speak the blasphemous statement again.

 _“Whatever!”_ Allen redirected the conversation back toward him, and continued. “ _Little Red_ doesn't need you to save him... He never did. He knew what he was getting into with that labcoat, and he knew why he put up with it – so fuck off with the white knight bullshit. _We’re all fucked here._ ”

He smiled a cheshire cat grin and gestured to the Citadel which surrounded them. “If you’re gonna drink from the bottle that says _fuck me,_ do yourself a favor and remember you're the only one who’s changing.”

 

“Change doesn't exist on the Citadel.”

 

R felt smaller as he said the words, with a numb ache in his throat.

“Then for that poor Morty who wants to be with you, he gets to choose to stay... every time you fuck up, R, ‘cause by your own _irrational bullshit_ logic, he shouldn’t be able to change either.”

R’s rumination in self-hatred had long moved past the point of self-indulgence. He swallowed another bitter stream of emotions at the thought of Morty, no longer able to enjoy the self-flagellating satisfaction in calling himself a _worthless piece of shit_ , because his continued existence had made life unnecessarily harder for the redhead, and that was far worse than a general benign worthlessness.

“Everyone’s gonna hurt you, one way or another. We’re all inherently faillible fucks... You just gotta find the fucks worth suffering for.”

Crow shrugged and leaned an elbow on the rosewood, scrubbing his fingers through his longer than Rick-average hair, before thumbing his soul patch in thought, and R scoffed dismissively into his drink. 

“Yeesh, you sound like one of those abandoned Ricks.”

“Fuck, R,” The bartender narrowed his eyes toward him, unwilling to entertain his foul mood. “If you’re this ready to tap out, let me send you down the river.”

Irritated at the impromptu tough-love pep talk, R rolled his eyes at the plaid-loving bartender who seemed to worship the very concept of struggle, convinced that some divine truth could only be found in the deepest dives. Like R, Crow had come to the Citadel of his own will. Unlike him, he wasn’t the Rick in a box, trying to drown himself into a deep and dreamless slumber.  

R invited a few large, chugging gulps from his glass, before deciding it would be too much effort, and pointless to correct him. He’d already mentally tapped out.  

“Only _optimists_ kill themselves, Crow. Cause it's an honest confession of existence.” He glared accusingly toward him before continuing. “If I never had a reason to _commit life_ , why the fuck would I have one to commit suicide?”

“–Cause most Ricks come here to start drinking when they finally have a reason to _stop_ drinking– _God-dammit,_ Allen, get your nose out of that shit on Rose! Take a trip to the fucking bathroom like the rest of us!”

Recognizing the source of the pounding sound, R glanced over to Allen, who had crushed out a thick line of molecular krystal, and was tapping it into the fold of his previously relinquished ten. Before he could be deterred by Crow, however, he snorted it, tilting his head back with another sniff as he pressed a knuckle into his bruising face.

“Alright alright... Alright! Yeeesh, give me a break...I just had my face fucked! A-And not that you asked. No one wants to use in that dilapidated door-less shithole!”

“Tough shit, use it anyways.”  

Allen frowned at the challenge, before redirecting his focus back toward R.

“Looks to me like that Morty is the best reason you’ve had so far to throw your life away...Deep down, that’s the most optimistic thing you can think of.”

R’s alcohol-addled gaze turned toward the reflection of himself.

His entire experience of living on the Citadel had been of him looking through the mirrored glass menagerie; as R understood the blinding, illuminating reflection of his collective self, he more fully understood his individual self. Deep down, beneath the translucent surface, he saw how fragile they all were. He turned away from him in dismissal.

“Yeah, it’s all _Sunshine and Blue Roses_ here, isn’t it?”

“Look, Sanchez, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but pessimists aren’t born, _they become_. A-and your little personal journey of revelation isn’t anything new here...You want the truth of this distorted fucking fishbowl? Y’know, while you continue to drink like you’re breathing water over there?”

Allen kissed the air toward Crow in a preemptive apology, before snatching R’s glass, and, with a clean turn of his hand, baptizing the record store owner under an offering of self.

 

Loved in the only way he knew how.

 

“You have to _see_ the fucking water before you drown in it!”

R made no motion or sound as the liquid poured over his body with command, and seeped into the marrow of his bone like another ritual of inevitability. Allen returned the tankard to its place on the counter, before promptly rising from the stool. He slapped the ten on the bar in irritation, and muttered something about _needing a fucking smoke,_ before leaving.

“Go shit out whatever the fuck just crawled up _your_ ass!”

As Crow shouted after his barfly, R silently sucked the barrel of his flask, loading another round of distilled fire into his mind.

“Jeezus-fucking-Christ, R. If I offered a buyback every time someone was an asshole in here...”

“I-It’s not exactly– I I’m a mirror-wielding heretic, Crow. S’why...why I never left the fucking record store.”

Crow wiped the counter before tapping the paper currency on the woodgrain in front of him, placing a new unspoken bet between them.  

“I’ll cut to the chaser. The Citadel breaks every Rick at some point, R, and if you can’t let yourself break, then it’s gonna fucking kill you.”

The deepest act of self-hatred was the best form of self-sabotage Ricks ever created. Ultimately, the Citadel soberingly reduced him, and every other Rick within it, back to the scale of being pathetically and dispiritingly human.

“Yeah, well, lemme know if you find some kind of Nirvana in the cracks, cause the moral of that fucking story is _existence is pain_.”

“We all wanna die, R, but it doesn't hurt to have an unironic, unsarcastic enjoyment and love of something while you’re alive.”

“Y-you know that grunge was only supposed to be a phase a postmodern bullshit, right?”

“ _Grunge..._ was just a fucking label that someone else slapped on it, _Record Store Rick_ , but this? This is _living_. This is existence. My dive runs on an egalitarian ethos, but it serves up chaos, incarnate. It does the breaking.”

Crow tossed the towel toward R, who set it aside for the time being, not yet ready to clean himself up.

“And if it _doesn't_ kill you, then you get to leave stronger in the broken places.”

For a rare moment, the bar fell quiet, and R considered the unsolicited advice. He exhaled a shaky, far too vulnerable sigh of resignation into the darkness.

“I’m tired of being stronger than the shit that didn’t fucking kill me.”

The bartender offered a nonchalant shrug, stealing the towel back as he returned to lovingly clean the mess from the surface of his spotless bar.

“Then I’m gonna be out another ten bucks.”

 

***

 

Morty stood at the poorly-kept entrance to the heart of R’s rabbit hole: a burrowing flight of rusted metal stairs dangerously unfolding toward the sanguine doorway, shedding flecks of crimson paint like burning embers against the quickly fading glow of the Citadel sunset.

The lack of signage signaled a not-so-subtle discouragement that Mortys like himself intuitively picked up on, but he ignored the ominous foreboding and pressed a warm hand against the wooden surface, feeling unease flare inside of him. Pulsing fingertips traveled the weathered texture of the wood-grain, and its weight gave beneath his command, opening like an old scar: in a drawn out, wounded song.

He had once asked the head bartender what a dive was. The crowbar-wielding Rick had simply informed him that it was _something that hurt to look at, but, in the end, was real –_ moments before he caved a Rick’s skull in for putting a blade’s edge against his rose-tinted slab of wood. 

Morty imagined that the threshold he now stood at was, similarly, a physical manifestation of something very real, and like the church box he had been entrusted with, it was the keeper of R’s cordiform secrets. It was the furthest he could run to bury himself while still alive, and deep behind the wall of his own isolation, the stoner desperately clutched the key against his chest.

 

“–Oi! If I wanted daylight, I wouldn’t’ve bought a fucking door!”

 

The bartender Rick shouted about the light falling into his establishment and, like a moth to the flame of an authoritative voice, Morty was further drawn into its darkness.

 

 _♫_ _“So, so you think you can tell!”_

 

 _♫_ _“Heaven from Hell.”_

 

_“The best thing about a hole-in-the-wall is that it’s filthy, cheap and fun– i-in that order.”_

Repudiating the reality he was left with in Morty Town, the redhead chased after the spectre of his grandfather’s lingering words, and followed him here: a place the teen had only ever set foot in looking to take him home.

Desperate for anything that could momentarily make the pain subside, he’d given of himself in mourning. At the dawn of each day, he bowed his head and moaned in eulogy while nameless versions of his grandfather consumed the sacrament of his flesh.

In the ritual of blind faith, he closed his eyes in desperate prayer, as if something as humble as wanting to believe that their hands were _his_ could change reality. 

Deep down, he knew they wouldn't replace his grandfather, despite the Ricks who insisted that, _for him_ , they could. He clutched his stages of grief like a string of dark pearls, tightly against his chest, beneath the obfuscating lights he worshiped under.

Morty had entered through the door with perspicacity, _knowing_ what existed behind the wall of fear and shame R had hidden himself behind.

 

 _♫_ _“We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl!”_

“–You wanna do live music, R? Use the venue upstairs!”

Half-passed out and drooling visions on the rose-tinted countertop, R lamented, lost in the lyrics of a mournful hymn, drowning in the unknowable depths of his own thoughts.

Morty made his way toward him, passing the booth where, long ago, he took an insignificant blade to the sticky surface and carved the dimensional number he shared with his grandfather in tribute, casting it like a star among the countless others. A hand pressed into his shoulder as he gravitated towards the stray stoner, weaving between the bodies between them.

 

“Hey! Little Red, come to get your new Rick?”

 

Morty tensed at hearing the familiar nickname, and the nonchalant suggestion that accompanied it. He glanced over his shoulder to see Rick Allen warmly smiling down at him.

“He’s… He’s not my Rick.” Morty motioned to pull away, but the grip tightened on his shoulder, drawing him back.

“Well, baby, he’s gonna have whiskey dick if you wanna go to grandpa’s house tonight…” Allen licked his lips with a wet smack. “If you want a wolf in Rick’s skin, I’d love to take that pretty face home and devour it.”

His pupils were blown like dark glass jewels beneath the colorful low-light as he invitingly stared into the redhead, and Morty visibly cringed at the invasion.

He’d met Allen while acting as if he knew how to play billiards, not realizing how different it was from pool. The Rick sporting a cautionary orange jumpsuit had bought him a drink from across the room, where he had been watching the teen’s naïve display. With a wink and a dangerous smile, he offered the redhead a lesson, knowing precisely why a Morty had decided to set foot into the bar.

The ex-con had pressed his body flush against the teen’s, and guided his hand with a chuckle, helping the redhead learn the rules of this new game, and, wrapped within the all-encompassing warmth of his presence, Morty remembered what it was like to spend time with his grandfather.

 

_“Thanks for the adventure, Morty.”_

 

He'd ruffled the red tuft of hair on his head, leaving him with the suggestion that he’d be better suited for the dartboard, where there was less math and physics involved. Then, he'd caught Morty’s chin and pressed a kiss into his cheek, inviting the Rickless bastard to follow him.

 

_“I’ll be your Grandpa tonight...”_

 

The first Rick who Morty pretended was him.

 

_“Let me take care of you.”_

 

He'd promised to make it good for him, and he had, but it was nothing more than baseless, carnal desire. Allen had left the teen in the bathroom to clean himself up, confessing that he’d just _wanted something pretty to fuck._

He’d made that ambition perfectly clear to Morty, however, from the moment he pressed the redhead’s back against a duchamp fountain and told him he was beautiful. Art, against the abrasive, mustard-colored walls and surrounding pieces of shit. Rick pressed his flesh into the teen, and beside glory holes drilled into gallery walls, kissed Morty with the same bruising force of his grandfather, and made him feel numb.

Thorns of ecstasy, that carried with their relief, the stench of rot and decay.  

 

“So you finally had enough of that labcoat, eh?”

 

With a sudden, nauseating wave of apprehension, Morty glanced around the tavern for any signs of the Rick he hadn’t seen in days, sweating at the mere mention of him. He, too, was a regular here, and Morty didn’t know if he was ready to see him yet. He didn’t know how he or Labcoat Rick would react if they did cross paths.  

 

“Forget this shit-face, Little Red. I’ll fix you up with anyone in this room.”

 

Using the establishment payphone, patrons had often called Morty to come and collect what had become “his problem now”, warning that Labcoat would be kicked to the curb and robbed blind if he was passed out on the bar come closing time.

The bar’s crew had a tendency to be rough around the edges, if not outright assholes altogether. It was why Morty had shown up this evening to collect R. He couldn’t stand the thought of him waking up alone, in a Citadel gutter, as he had seen happen to other Ricks and Mortys. 

He ignored Allens offer and turned toward the drunken stoner, gently nudging his back. R stirred in irritation, and attempted to move away from the source, returning to rest his head into the pillow of his arm.

“Get up, R. It’s time to go.”

Allen made an quip about R already having been _his_ choice for the night, and R’s head snapped upward in attention, mumbling something about time being fucked anyways.

“Ugh, I’m so fuckin’– I just. I wanna rest my eyes for a little bit  I-I’m not going to sleep, I just. I just need to rest my eyes.”

When R twisted toward the teen with an irritated expression, his short attention-span caught on Morty, and he grinned wide in recognition of him.

“Hey! Muh-Morty...little Morty buddy. Bud...Little green bud. H-H-How are you doing, in here right now?”

He sat up, stretching his arms out wide as he fell from his stool. Morty caught him around the waist and helped him to stand, leveraging his entire weight to catch the lax body as it wobbled off balance.

The teen dug his heel into the floor and prevented R’s lack of coordination from throwing them both off their feet, and R eventually stabilized himself by wrapping a soaking wet arm around Morty’s shoulder in song, reeking of alcohol.

“I-I-I-I’m singing _._ I’m singing...I’m singing to the Rick in my...in my head, Morty.” R stupidly waved a flask at the teen, before taking a sip, and pressed his cheek against the boy’s forehead, whispering with a drunken sense of urgency. “But I-I-It’s. It’s not me. I’m singing... Singing to, Morty.” He exhaled.

Morty plucked the metal flask from R’s hand, wondering where he had gotten it from, and tucked it into the older man’s overshirt pocket. Drool spilled onto the teen’s face as he tightened his grip around the tall body and began to pull his weight away from the bar. 

“You know, I had a-a really...a real rocky road today, Mo-Morty… Y-you're my little smoke buddy, aren't you... Had some good times together, huh, Morty? Some goo’– real times. Music Mort. Strawberry feels forever and ever... 100 years...time...It doesn't...It’s always forever.”

R hummed warmly against him, and deep-sniffed his hair like a fucking creep, murmuring something about _how great his strawberry smelled_. Morty, however, was unable to smell anything apart from the pungent alcohol saturating his layers of clothing.

“Morty, we had… You're a–a real... record, take– takin’ care of.. takin’ me. For a spin, huh, Muh-Morty...”

The stoner looked too far gone when he drank, and Morty couldn't help but feel that weed suited him so much more.

“Take him home, little bird.” Crow shouted the order through the chaotic space, reaching over the bar to tuck a piece of paper currency, laced with drugs, behind the flask in R’s overshirt pocket. 

“I got money sitting on this one.”

R batted the bartender’s hand away, letting out a deflated sigh as he groaned in irritation.

“Pshhhh, alright. I'll-I'll go. I'll go. I'll go. I'll leave… I’ll leave the bar. Yeesh, I’ll go.”

The ritual sounds of [ closing time ](https://open.spotify.com/track/087OBLtoeS3Q6j0k6tMNAI?si=vyXHSvI-QEKgf8rhy3MuaQ) began to play optimistically across the bar, and Morty herded R toward the door, despite his drunken ramblings of protest.  

“Morty! Y-you gotta go home without me. Come on. Jus'... you gotta, you gotta go home without me, Morty.”

“Aw jeez, R, I’m just gonna help you get home, okay?”

Morty reached for R’s hand, hanging over his shoulder and down across Morty’s chest, and laced their fingers together, giving R a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“...Yeah, okay Mort. But you...okay, just back to the store.”

  
***

_Drink up, baby, stay up all night_  
_With the things you could do, you won't but you might_  
_The potential you'll be that you'll never see  
_ _The promises you'll only make_

 

A hypnotic blue spell had cloaked the Citadel nightscape, and time seemed to dilate as the pair stepped out of the bar. Everything moved at a slower tempo, as if the Sapphire City itself had been enveloped into the surrounding oceanic void.

Although an artifice could be viewed in Silver Palm, there was no need for a physical moon to orbit the Citadel, and it was a solemn, existential reminder of how far from Earth they truly were. In the absence of the artificial light, an endless cacophony of the chaotic cosmos – the loneliest suns of the abyss – burned relentlessly around them.

 

It was as brilliant as it was breathtaking.

 

R softly hummed to Morty, pressing their faces close together with unconscious desire as they trekked beneath the watchful stars. The older man became aware of himself for a brief moment, and suddenly shifted away from the teen.

“No-no, Morty, I-I-i-i– I got this. Can do it my– I don’t. I don’t need your... don’t need you, Morty. I got...I don’t. I don’t need anyone.”

Morty ignored him and, instead, redirected the older man’s attention to the light of the stars shining overhead. R fell quiet as he gazed upwards toward them, stumbling forward in the teen’s arms, his bare feet treading softly through the darkness of their silent, starlit vigil. 

Breaking the silence, Morty spoke, the sound of his voice a hushed noise pressing itself into the night, softened by the atmosphere’s hallowed enchantment. 

“You told me you didn't like drinking, R… it made you feel lonely.”

With a dull ache in his chest, Morty closed his eyes at the quiet confrontation. He didn’t want to acknowledge that R, like all Ricks, was so easily influenced by alcohol. His preference for weed was one of the first things that had made the stoner seem different to Morty.

The drunk pressed his nose into the threads of the teen’s warm red hair, as if his answer were something obvious. “That was when. When I didn't want to be–To be alone. When I said that, Morty.” 

“What about now?” Morty wondered aloud. R fell quiet once more, sinking into his drunken thoughts, before softly confessing the sins of his existence into the endless night that stretched above them.

“Wanna… wanna know. The truth? A drug’s, a drug’s...a drug effect. But I...It’s fast acting, Morty. The effect. Fast acting poison. In...In my blood…”

The older man trailed with quiet padded footfalls of flesh, and Morty held the gravity of his words between them. R had stopped trying to pull away from the teen, and instead was drawn into him. Beckoned by evening’s cold air, he allowed himself to be led, gently, into the dark night.

“Weed gets me...gets me high on love, but I’m drunk, Morty, I-I’m drunk on hate...It’s poison.”

He pulled his hand away from Morty’s as he confessed, reaching for his flask. His motions stilled as he took another long pull before lowering the glistening metal container, and gazed despondently through the invisible barrier.

Out of the darkness of his existence, he bitterly screamed into the abyss with an anguished song, and Morty jumped at the vibrant noise, which shattered the soft spell of silence which had begun to suffocate them.

The moment, so quintessentially full, that no singular emotion existed within its chaos. The older man's body shook at the vibrating fibers of his being as he gave voice to the coda of his existence.

He continued to wail in ecstasy, unafraid, and Morty could only imagine that the Rick was truly intoxicated in its influence. A clandestine moment of self, unrelentingly on fire, with the same force that lit the stars.

 

Breathtaking as it was beautiful.

 

In its raw, unapologetic display, it became uncomfortably overwhelming for Morty to take in, and his eyes burned at being made to witness it. His grip tightened around R's body, suddenly afraid to let him go as the reaching coda of chaos fell quiet.

Left yearning, R fell back into the familiar words of song. Extinguished, his downcast gaze returned to Earth, and he urged Morty forward, the moment having slipped through his drunken grasp.

 

 _♫ “_ _Some are born to endless night.”_

 

 

“Is that uh, a _Doors_ song?” Morty swallowed his emotions, determined to get R home.

“No, I-It’s just some Romantic... It’s just bullshit. Bullshit, Morty, It’s just bullshit.”

With a timid, near imperceptible squeeze, R pulled Morty ever so slightly into his presence, and sloppily kissed his forehead, before continuing to brightly sing his heart out.

As they arrived at the curb of the familiar record storefront, they were greeted by his drug dealing squatters who had also waited for the stray stoner to return. Rick moved toward Morty as he came into view, offering to help carry the weight.

 

Home.

 

Morty nodded in greeting to Rick and Silent Morty as he lowered the drunk in his care to the curb, searching his pockets for a set of keys. R fussed with the teen, before resigning, and reached for his flask once more, opening it for another sip.

“He didn’t lock the door,” Rick stated, as his partner fell against the glass window, wearing a hard expression of anger and relief. He exhaled a puff of smoke, and watched the dark wisps disappear amongst the stars like a sharp-edged thief in the night. 

R turned his entire body toward Rick’s voice, and threw his arm toward him in an overt sweeping gesture, pointing his flask with an accusing finger.

“Fu-Fuck yo~u, Ray! I wanted you to... ‘cause you would’ve anyways. I wanted you to– to steal my shit. Already took... took my porch... The rest… you can. Steal the rest of my shit, too.”   

The Rick's mouth tightened into a thin line, and he looked at R before turning to his silent partner, and snatched the swisher from his mouth, jamming it into his own to prevent himself from saying the words pressing into his tongue. After a quiet moment, he called to the Morty who had brought the record store owner home.

“Music Mort, you got a minute?”

He cocked his head around the corner of the building, and Morty followed the duo, leaving R to lay on the cement as he continued to serenade the planets consumed in flames above him.

The vapid swan song of an impersonal cosmos.

 

 _♫_ _“End of the Night.”_

 

“You gotta go into work tonight?”

He bluntly interrogated the teen, who shook his head, wrapping fingers around the bend in his elbow, and silently shifted in place.  

Manager Rick had informed Morty that he would be cutting his hours until he _got his shit together_ , and Morty was trying not to think about it, otherwise overwhelming feelings of anxiety would paralyze him. At best, he wouldn't be able to make rent, and at worst, it was a sign that he'd soon be fired.

 

“No uh...my.” He avoided eye contact with the Rick. “No work tonight.”

 

 _♫_ _“Some are born to sweet delights.”_

 

Morty had been watching his life slowly fall apart, and it was the first time he cared to acknowledge it. He wasn't sure, however, what he could do but helplessly watch it crumble at his feet. He wasn’t even sure if he knew how to talk about it.

“I’m on a different schedule now.”

 

 _♫_ _“Some are born to endless lives.”_

 

“Good.” Rick puffed another trail of smoke sighing at the release. “Mort and I have to go hustle the flip side of town for a few hours...I know he ain't your Rick, but my Mort's been worried about him– It’s why we hung around this long.”

Morty glanced at Silent Morty, who looked away, hiding his face into his partner’s jacket. In turn, his Rick unconsciously placed a reassuring arm around him. Morty quietly nodded to them in understanding, unable to give voice to the fear shared between the three of them.

 

 _♫_ _“End of the Night.”_

 

Morty hadn't really wanted to return to his apartment. Despite everything that had happened, Church still felt safer to him. The teen had grown paranoid that Labcoat would return to his apartment without warning, and had avoided returning to it whenever he could. 

Rick rested a weighted hand against Morty’s shoulder, but did not follow up the Rick-centric action with a reassuring squeeze. Instead the dealer held the weight firmly in place, and its stillness silently expressed a multitude of emotions unheard of from a Rick.

“Thanks, kid. We'll throw in a few fat bowls sometime tomorrow…”

“Sure thing.”

 

 _♫_ _“End of the Night.”_

 

“One more thing,” Rick added, pulling his hand away from Morty’s shoulder, “get that flask away from R, or he’s not gonna make it through the night.”

 

 _♫_ _“End of the Night.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Art Credit | Interdimensional Rorty, who created Bar Rick, and allows me to write about him in the Starry AU** Also a quick cameo of BRick (British Rick), an OC of Shameless. 
> 
> **La Fee Verte (2011):** Shoutout to one of TMTC’s readers, Heyothere33, who introduced me to this song and artist, Alex Turner. It fit R so well that I had to add it into the story! Thank you for reading this story and sharing music with me!
> 
>  **The Infinite Motel:** Nod to a thought experiment about Hilbert’s rate of infinite increase. I’ll add a video to the TMTC youtube playlist. R’s thoughts consider infinite death, rather than growth rates of infinity. 
> 
> **The Court of The Crimson King (1969):** This is a pioneer of the progressive rock movement. It evokes imagery of a funeral march and fire in a royal court, perfect for R in this chapter. An offshoot from psychedelics, progressive rock, stoner rock, space rock, desert rock experimented with classical form. 
> 
> **Morty's Anger:** Especially Season 3 Morty expresses rage and anger issues. I wanted to have that character trait be present in this fic as well. I HC that Morty in general doesn't deal with shit until he explodes at his limit, unable to avoid it any longer. 
> 
> **Rape Me (1991):** I thought this was a great select for R’s self-flagellating mental state as he enters the bar. Cobain wanted to make a strong statement in support of women and against violence toward them. In his words, the song is a sort of poetic justice. A guy rapes a girl. He ends up in jail and is raped there. It's also believed that the song was in direct relation to his feeling of being raped by the media, in particular Vanity Fair and MTV.
> 
>  **Heart Shaped Box (1993):** I like to interpret it as a symbol for being allowed inside another person, mentally and physically, and this is the idea I played with in the fic. R has literally run to the darkest part of his heart, symbolized by the tavern, and Morty follows him into it. 
> 
> The idea of the song reportedly came from Courtney Love when she presented Kurt with a heart-shaped box full of precious possessions. There is no clear explanation for what it symbolizes in the song.
> 
>  **“The tab for seven dollar shots caps at seventy”:** is a biblical reference where Jesus said church members should forgive each other “seventy times seven” or 490 times, a number that symbolizes boundlessness. R references a running tab of what he sees as unforgivable sins (all falling into the category of self-desecration), and questions whether forgiveness should have conditions or limits. Crowbar Rick cleverly makes a reference to this, seven dollar beers and the seven deadly sins. 
> 
> **Sunshine and Blue Roses (1978) & R refers to the Citadel as a glass menagerie: ** In reference to the depressing play by Tennessee Williams, with themes of mental illness and escapism. Laura, the mentally-ill, melancholic young woman, heavily fixates on the nature of her glass figurines, and is called Blue Roses by her love interest. R, similarly, fixates on his self-reflections, and sarcastically references a song, by the Cathedrals, which was the origin of the phrase “Everything is Sunshine and Roses.” 
> 
> **Only optimists kill themselves:** is a quote from Romanian philosopher of pessimism, Emil Cioran. Lots of endnotes about him in the end of Chapter 7.
> 
> **Allen Encounter:** Stories that explore consensual sex usually fall into cut-and-dry consensual (good) or non-consensual (bad) encounters. The question of consent in this fic gets messier when considering Morty’s grooming, and his attraction to Ricks, who are, essentially, variations of his grandfather. BUT I wanted Morty’s encounter with Allen to highlight an instance of a consensual (as in Morty is choosing it for himself) experience that Morty leaves feeling negatively about. I think it’s important to also show that sex can be consensual, but can still be terrible sex, or in other words, consent does not automatically guarantee a good or healthy sexual experience or relationship.
> 
>  **Between the Bars (1997):** This song makes a canon appearance in the show, during the Tiny Rick episode. It’s a song about the cyclical nature of depression and alcoholism. Elliott Smith, who struggled with depression and substance abuse, took his own life in 2003


	16. Drain The Whole Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The heart is more deceitful than all else, and is desperately sick; who can understand it?” – Jeremiah 17:9_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Gonna warn for some heavy angst continuing its course from the last chapter, but this has a nice, hopeful end, as the story begins to transition out of the angst arc. _(fucking finally, amirite?)_ In the meantime, more Rick-typical alcohol abuse, R being an emotional drunk, depression and discussion of suicide. More of R’s abusive childhood, but R finally starts to open up to Morty and let him in.
> 
>  **General TWs:** Depressive Thoughts and Suicide Ideation, Feelings of Worthlessness, Emotional Vulnerability, **Flashbacks of:** Child Abuse, Intimate Partner Violence, Cycles of Violence  
>   
>  Spoiler Summary Feature is Disabled. Click "Show Creator's Style" at the top of this page to activate. (Mobile Friendly)

R’s intoxicated stargazing was interrupted by a pair of warm hands, which raised his preserved carcass from the curb and offered him the temptation to exist. The redhead’s presence pressed against him and, with an unwavering determination, guided the older man into the cold comfort of his empty, Citadel home. His weathered bones knocked against the teen’s as they clambered inside.

 

“Why are you still _here?"_

 

The drunken man hadn't wanted to return to the record store but, inevitably, R fucked everything up, and of course, his romanticized intention to be found by time’s decrepit shadow, alone – pointlessly and poetically dead in a gutter – was no exception to that rule.

The unyieldingly warm presence embraced him, and, with a steadfast arm wrapped around his waist, supported the weight R could no longer carry, helping the debilitated drunk up the flight of stairs.

The physical sensation of his touch was imbued with so much affection that it tore open a deep and visceral wound which twisted in on itself like layers of an old scar. Nothing felt solid. R tried to focus, and gain control of his movements, but his vision doubled and he stumbled, pitifully into the younger teen.  

 

R needed to listen to the burning crackle of old spinning records.

 

Morty assisted the record store owner with the ritual, after R had drunkenly attempted to do so on his own. He couldn't abandon the idea from his inebriated thoughts, and with an ecstatic sense of urgency, he belligerently persisted to the teen how much he needed to listen to _this turntable’s_ specific sound.

The humble Goldring, nested inside a wooden frame, had been his first and, therefore, it was the one that mattered most to the record store owner. As he shared the drunken logic with Morty, the redhead empathetically agreed with R’s irrational attachments and, together, they retrieved it from the place of honor above the stoner’s bed, setting up the piece of anachronistic technology on the bedroom floor beside them. 

R began to shiver, and allowed Morty to help him out of his sopping wet shirts, but refused a fresh change of clothing, exasperating at the mere idea, and arguing that _clothes could go fuck themselves_ as he shucked off his jeans as well.

Morty blushed toward his exposed presence, and instead of trying to change R’s obstinate, drunken decision making, pulled the scratchy wool blanket from the stoner’s bed, laying it over his bare shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. R pulled the warm fabric further over himself, irrationally shaken by the small gesture of kindness that had been offered.

Carefully, the teen set the needle to drag along the grooves of spinning vinyl, and the last record that had been played poured itself into R’s home, glowing with a warm, golden sound.

 

R had left the record mounted, following his previous bender.

 

To celebrate the cardinal virtue of alcoholism, he patted around, then reached for his flask when he caught sight of it, but Morty too-quickly pulled it out of his range. The older man stared at the teen through an alcohol-soaked gaze, calculating, for a moment, the effort, before deciding that it was futile, like everything else in his life.

He relinquished it with a _fucking have it, then_ and abandoned it with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if it were ever a choice in his control, and, sulking, he returned his blanket-wrapped body to the uncomfortable hardwood, swimming through the ocean of alcohol-infused memories as the notes of music hung over him.

 

He sang to the person he loved.

 

 

 _You can blame me, Try to shame me  
__And still I'll care for you_  

 _You can run around, Even put me down  
_ _Still I'll be there for you_

 

_“Richard!” A sharp voice alarmingly resonated in the walls of his memory._

 

 

_“K-Keep it down. I’ve got a...got a headache.”_

_The person R had once defined with terms of endearment rubbed his temple to ease the building pressure of another hangover. A cigarette hung, burning, between his fingers, and his brow furrowed in irritation as the military figure of authority posed rigidly over the small formica kitchen table._

_Beneath the humming halo of fluorescent ochre light, R looked up in awe at the glistening decanter of rich, amber liquid, closely guarded within the grasp of his father’s fingertips._

_Even before he understood what it was, R had known of its importance._

_“Sorry Daddy.” He trailed with a singsong tone, before climbing into his mother’s embrace. “I was just...singing to mo~mmy.”_

_“Si, Baby Blue,” his mother quickly interjected with a reassuring, hushing coo, “pero, ahora, Papi is unwell.”_

_R listened to his mother’s words, and grew overwhelmed by the brilliant idea that had taken hold of his thoughts, and burst at the seams in excitement to share them with her. “Quizás!... Maybe! I should sing for Daddy too!”_

_When the boy began to sing again, his father’s voice exploded over his, into the small room, and a loud crash shattered against the kitchen wall in warning. The chair screeched across the tile laminate, before falling to the floor behind him as the man threateningly rose from the table._

_“ONE THING! Is it too much to ask for some God-damned peace and quiet!?”_

_Instinctually, his mother wrapped unmoving, steadfast arms around R’s small frame. Her voice, rising a few, near-imperceptible decibels as she spoke to her child in a hurried, panicked tone._  

 _“No, no no, es mal, Baby Blue, that’s not a good idea.” She hushed, smoothing thumbs across his arms to quiet him, before pulling him further into a protective hug._  

_Kissing his forehead, she quickly rose to carry him from the room, whispering in a language that only he knew._

_“Azulito...mi cancion, para siempre, cien_ _años,_ _te amo...te amo.”_

_Together, they walked to the park holding hands, and played for hours, until the sun went down._

 

 _The world may think I'm foolish  
_ _They can't see you, Like I can_

 _Oh but anyone  
_ _Who knows what love is, Will understand_

 

R saved his old records for the days he wanted to luxuriate in the misery of his own nostalgia. Each remembrance continually expanding the universe of his own self-hatred, cultivated at the core of his being.

 

His father didn’t start on him until after she left.

He was too much like his mother.

 

The violent fragmentation of memories sharply echoed through the walls of his mind as he continued to process the spinning reflections of his broken past with an alcohol-distorted psyche.

Like the continual return to a place of nascent worship, the dizzying medium – as fundamental as the birth of his existence – embraced him like a forgotten maternal womb.

R’s life played itself out like a broken record: a series of inevitable looping crashes. Its song a cacophonous condemnation, spinning cycles of violence.

 

Violence, practiced like prayers on his mother.

Violence, worshiped in his father in search of salvation.

Violence, confessed toward his own abandoned self.   

Violence, practiced as an act of love toward another.

 

Iterations of his collective self had brought violence full circle in equally infinite variations.

Where most Ricks waited until they were fathers before removing themselves from the picture to prevent the realization of their own worst fears, R had, long before that, decided to cut the self-fulfilling prophecy from his timeline.

But R inevitably fucked everything up, and by some cruel and twisted anagnorisis of a pre-determined, fatalistic multiverse, he still violently crashed into his dismembered progeny.

 

It was the inexorable, inescapable track of his existence.  

 

Whatever mental illness and past traumas he had experienced did not justify his choice to perpetuate the violence of his own toxic shit, and by hurting Morty, _Rick_ had realized his worst fears.

 

 

For the first time, R found himself wondering which he took after more: the abandonment complex or the internalized self-hatred; the abuser or the victim; the perpetrator or the enabler.

 

_You’re nothing like her_

_You’re everything like her_

 

On the comparatively rare occasions that his mother drank, she accompanied the good time with the rare treat of a spliff, and played records, like the one R listened to now, to forget her pain for a luxurious, clandestine moment; the sound of their burning crackle, like the vibrant red ember of her cigarette, were unforgettable.  

 

Drowning himself in alcohol didn’t mean it stopped burning.

 

_Your love was never enough._

 

R played her records when he wanted to remember the reason why she left. 

It was the only thing R ever agreed with his father on. Had his mother not been knocked up, and succumbed to the evils of drugs and circumstance, she undoubtedly would have lived a better life than the one she gave her son.

 

_“She never wanted you, Richard. You were the biggest mistake of her life.”_

 

He loved her too much to blame her for making it, and he hated his father too much to hold that much power over his life.

Rationally speaking, there was no one left to blame but himself.

 

R was a mistake she couldn't correct.

 

He shouldn’t have been born.

 

R slurred his words, pushing the glass of water away from himself, “N-No mas...C-corazón en llamas...”

The burning presence that felt so much like hers caught and held him at the back of the neck, offering comfort, as a glass of water insistently pressed into the curve of his lips, asking for R to do his best to take a small sip. The mellifluous voice echoed against his distorted senses, and R could not deny the soft cooing pleas that resonated in the center of his being.

He took into his body the life-giving fluid, and pressed his forehead into the heart of the warm embrace, indulging it for just for a moment. A hand smoothed over his naked back, and R coughed against the bit of water he had inhaled.

 

“Your Church box...I uh…”  

 

The wooden box that held his mother’s spliffs. As his last hope, he’d given it to Morty, and waited to lose it. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he attempted to gaze up, and focus his senses on the boy he was speaking with.

 

“I–”

“No-no, no te pre– don’t– it doesn't...it doesn't matter, Red-ito.”

 

_“A mal tiempo, buena cara, Azulito!– I must be like Wendy, all grown up.”_

On the comparatively rare occasions that his mother drank, she opened the lid to her wooden prayer box in secrecy, and burned another dream. With a glassy-eyed melancholy, she sucked the whisper of poisonous hope into her heart, languidly staring into the baby blue eyes she was made to love, as self-medicated nostalgia allowed her the rare luxury of escape. 

_“Como Wendy, who must be brave, I keep what is most important...safe in this box.”_

_R sat on her lap, with his head against her chest, contentedly immersed in the haze of tobacco, weed, and liquor. She caressed her fingers through the strands of his blue hair as he dozed to sleep in the universe of her embrace._

_“Pero, I don’t like to open... because each time, it becomes harder to close, Baby Blue. Entiendes?”_

She only played records and heavily drank on the nights she was preparing to stay through another episode of abuse. Her resonant voice spoke to him, as she remembered the past as if it were a lifetime ago.

_“Baby Bluebird.. Azulito...Ai, mi cielito lindo... Canta y no llores...”_

 

She played the records so he couldn’t hear her cry.

 

 

He sung to her so she wouldn't have to.

 

She left him an empty box.

 

R’s lip quivered as he remembered how long it took before he stopped waiting for her to come back. His father thought R had eventually toughened up, but R had taken his mother’s advice.   

_“Your whore of a mother ain't coming back! You want something to cry about, I’ll give you something to cry about –ungrateful piece of shit.”_

 

He stopped crying in his presence. 

He stopped singing too.

 

Often, he thought of running away from his abusive, alcoholic father's side, but he never stopped hoping she would return.

 

_“If something happened to you, Blue, what would I do!? Tell me what I would do!? Huh!? You’re all I have left of her!”_

 

Eventually, that hope corroded into a co-dependent attachment, and R stepped into the space his mother had abandoned, caretaking for the person who, despite abusing substances and his son, would never abandon him.

But R fucked everything up. Eventually, everyone left or suffered at his presence. Tears threatened to bleed from his eyes, but he refused them.

 

“Hope is the... it’s a shitty prayer, Morty.”

 

He sucked in a huff of air, and, defiant, held his breath while his body trembled in the wake of his emotions. When R had given the box to the teen, it didn’t feel as empty, anymore. But, afterwards, he understood what his mother had warned of. Why she had left it. Left him. 

 

He was too much like his father.

 

It was too hard to keep opening.

Each time, it grew harder have to have something worth believing in.

 

 

 

“I just...I want it to stop hurting...for _one fucking second,_ I wish it would stop.”

 

The wooden box became the coffin he buried himself in, when he finally accepted she wasn't coming back, and even as R tried to obliterate his conscious thought with alcohol, even as he sought to embrace the madness found within its chaotic embrace, he was still consciously made to suffer through his inescapable existence.

Feeling exposed, R exhaled an unstable breath, and hid his forehead away into Morty’s chest as the record continued to spin, a crackling static between them.

 

_“Baby Blue, can I stay with you tonight?”_

 

 _The night before she left, the voice of his mother woke him late at night. Her face was marred and bruised, even against the obscuring cover of the darkness. He reached a hand out to touch her face and she kissed his fingers._  

 _If he were older, he would have understood the fear in her pleading, swollen eyes._  

_If he were older, he would have understood that she was afraid to sleep in her own bed that night._

_If he had never been born…_

 

_It was his fault._

 

_He was a mistake._

 

_“No te preocupes, Azulito, calma...en sueños, vuela alto conmigo.”_

_R moved over on his bed to make room for her, and she held him in a suffocating embrace and cried them both to sleep, as if the act of being able to hold their existences together for one more night bestowed the blessing equivalent of a martyr._

_“Mi cielito, mi cancion, te amo...te amo. I_ _promise, I'll come back for you. Wait for me."_

 

R broke his promise to be better than her.

 

“I-I’m. I’m. I… I’m s-so sorry.” R hiccuped, and spilled the contradictory words from his being, and Morty wrapped arms around him in an unmovable embrace before the first tears could fall.

 

He broke the promise with himself to be better than him.

 

“I’m s-sorry,” R repeated, painfully alive as he shed tears for far more than shame over his recent actions. He was drowning in a lifetime of them. The older man momentarily tried to push Morty away, sick from the mixture of alcohol and affection, but the teen’s arms remained, steadfast, sure, and warm, holding their bodies together as R shattered into serrated pieces between them. His frame violently shook against Morty’s arms as his voice cracked, spilling gut-wrenching, fractured sobs that tore themselves from his chest.

“...I’m sorry.” R resigned, reaching out to hold Morty in turn, and further drew their existences together – wanting to remember what it was like to be held by someone he loved, while praying with every sharp edge of his being that no harm would come to the person who dared love him.

 

Morty was the first thought that had made all others fall quiet.

Morty was the first song that had resonated within every other.

 

Unaware of how tightly he was returning the teen’s embrace, R buried himself into the boys’ red shirt, baptizing it with an offering of self, and, as he saturated the threads with snot and tears, his alcohol addled mind bargained that he would forget everything tomorrow. The Citadel stopped spinning, and R gazed out the window, toward the blurry, burning stars, frozen in time.

 

“Only optimists fall in love, Morty.”

 

If R could have one prayer in his lifetime, he didn't want to spend his last night alone.

Something finally came into focus and made sense.

Through the distorted layer of water, the moment of clarity pierced him like an all-consuming bolt through his heart.

 

He cried so hard he vomited.

 

***

 

 

 

Morty held the pale and exhausted face of the record store owner, who, under the influence, wept as he whispered the sacred words held closest to the suffocating weight of his heart. He drew the older man close as R confessed them, wanting nothing more in that moment than to make the broken man feel whole.

 

_“I’ve been dead for a long time, Morty.”_

 

Morty held R’s hand, listening to the sounds of his strained and shaky breaths, as exhaustion and sleep gave the naked man a momentary reprieve of his pain. The teen kissed his brow, wanting the older man to feel loved, then ran a finger through his hair, before rolling him into the recovery position.

The drunken lonely stench of alcohol pressed against the teen’s senses as he gazed up toward the stars, and thought of the chemical reaction he called love.

 

“I don’t know how to talk about a life that doesnt have you in it, Grandpa Rick.”

 

He glanced down to the metal flask weighted in his palm, smoothing a thumb over its surface, deeply troubled by R’s intoxicated confession.

 

_“I don’t want to live.”_

 

Ricks transformed liquor, as if the water of their own tears were a miracle – an act of which they were undeserving, and the divine intervention purged the poisonous, distilled emotions that had been bottled, deep in the marrow of their bones. 

R, in a half-lucid state, had practiced the ritual, communing with the vivid spectres of alcoholic visions, until, like a drop returning to the ocean, he cried, naked and afraid in the redhead’s arms, until his eyes were more bloodshot than any weed the veteran stoner had ever smoked. Submerged in the depths of R's suffering, so luridly human, the space had made itself hollow, and Morty felt as if it were something sacred to witness.

 

 

Morty had climbed through R’s bedroom window, up the fire escape, and onto the record store’s rooftop, where he now sat with his feet slung over the ledge of the tall building, needing a quiet moment alone with his thoughts. It was here where he'd wasted what felt like hours escaping into the memory of his grandfather – the exact way the stars in his cosmic blue eyes made him feel. 

Maybe he had only ever been looking for _the idea_ of what his grandfather’s love had once meant to him, and all that particular drug effect had ever done was make the loss more painful to bear, because Morty didn't ever want to let his grandfather go. He continued to cast his thoughts, like comets, into the dark night.

 

“I miss you.”

 

The stars glowed brilliantly overhead, and Morty stared, transfixed, at the unobstructed view of the universe, in awe that even his own insignificant existence could still be meaningful for a fleeting moment within its endless expanse.

He clenched his fingers around the metal in his hand, borrowing the transformative power of the alcohol for himself, and spoke to his grandfather in ritual.

“It's uh...probably not healthy to think of you...‘cause sometimes I... I wanna go back to a time when I didn't feel so... lost. When everything made more sense.”

The Citadel offered no space for cemeteries or remains. When a life passed, the metallic structure continued to relentlessly spin without it, as indifferent to individual existence as the surrounding vacuous space.

Morty was lost without his grandfather, who, in turn, was gone and forgotten without him.

All Rick was were the things he did, and in the end, his grandfather’s final resting place was in Morty, himself. The stars stoked to life the hagiographic threads of the older man’s essence, allowing Morty to commune with the resurrected form that remained.

But the truth, cold and uncaring as the void, was that his grandfather was alive only within the moments Morty remembered him.

 

“I still love you…”

 

From within the abyss that stretched, endlessly, between them, Morty quietly confessed the sins of his own existence to the stars.

“I uh, still think of myself as yours. The memories...they still feel like the happiest I’ve ever been…”

He bit his lip as he held R’s flask, fidgeting with the lid in uncertainty.

“Some days, I’m not sure if I want to keep going without you.”

Hesitating, he brought the libation to his lips, and the distinct smell and taste of his grandfather physically hurt to take into his body. The small sip left a choleric taste on his mouth, searing his throat and stomach, and Morty’s heart seized itself with the dark reminiscent thoughts it drew out of him, fighting the pain he had ignited within himself.

 

He'd forgotten how much it felt like love.

 

“But you're gone now.” He coughed out the acrid words, affirming the sober reality he continued to stargaze within. “You’re gone, and I’m still here, still yours...and _nothing_ has changed.”

He wiped his lips with his forearm. It didn’t matter whether his grandfather’s actions of love were real or not. The only thing Morty could be absolutely certain of was his own self, and while the teen understood he could not fully trust his senses when under the influence of mind-altering, reality-shaping substances, he _could_ accept that those experiences, and their effects, were real to him.

Morty chose to be honest to himself about what his grandfather’s love had, at one point, so fully meant _to him._

 

“... _you_ wanted me to live. To choose.”

 

His grandfather was nothing without Morty, and if the teen allowed his memory, intoxicating as it was, to consume him, the only meaning he’d be able to find would be in following his epitaph, wherever that influence led. 

Morty rose from the ledge of the rooftop, and stepped down from it, planting his feet once more on the solid foundation, before returning his gaze to the cosmic abyss. 

He too, wanted to scream into its bottomless depths, but instead, Morty turned quietly inward, pressing a hand against the crimson tear-stained fabric; the offering had spilled over his heart as if the act itself had imparted R’s most desperate, bleeding prayers – clandestine confessions that had trembled on R’s lips, as if fear were the only form of love he believed in.

 

“It’s only a shitty prayer...if no one else can hear it.”

 

In ceremonious fashion, Morty extended his arm, and poured the small thread of glowing green alcohol into the loose gravel, allowing the parched surface to drink his grandfather’s share, tipping the flask until it emptied. Then, with a final irreverent shake, drained the last of its contents, denying the addictive temptation. Refusing to worship it.

 

“I heard it.”

 

The words caught in his throat, and with a shaking, determined fist, Morty stepped back, and hurled the flask from the rooftop with everything he had. Hallowed, he watched it sharply glint like a star ascending into the endless night without him.

 

A vapid ritual within an unrelentingly meaningful existence.

 

Voiceless, he said goodbye.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Azulito, cielito lindo:** The name R’s mother calls him by is the name for a bluebird, however, the direct translation is little blue, or baby blue. Bluebirds are symbolized as a harbinger of happiness and joy, and are often referenced in older depression era and wartime songs, either arriving, singing, or taking flight. They have also symbolized angels, or a prayer being sent or answered. _Cielito lindo_ means beautiful little sky, or beautiful small heaven. Earlier in the fic, R calls Morty Rojito (Red Bean, or Little Red…) and sings _Golden Slumbers_ to him. Morty wonders why most Ricks have stopped singing, and this chapter expands on the significance of R wanting to sing to a loved one, and what that means for him. 
> 
> **Spanish Surnames:** A general Rick and Morty headcanon of mine in both TMTC and Afterlife is that R’s mother was the Spanish speaking family member, and his father was a military figure and eventual alcoholic veteran (crotchless Uncle Sam daddy issues). The Sanchez surname headcanon is that Rick claims only her surname, because of his long standing hatred towards his father. Building onto this, as a child of the free spirited ‘60s-’70s he hates figures of authority, and government. 
> 
> **“Mal tiempo, buena cara”, “Canta y no llores”, R’s smoke-tinted nostalgia:** Similar to Morty's unreliable narration, R holds the memories of his mother as near-sacred. “Canta y no llores!” or “Sing and don’t cry!” is a nod to a traditional Spanish folk song, while “Mal tiempo, buena cara.”, “in bad times, a good face” or “put on a brave face” is used in reference to Peter Pan's adult Wendy, and her drawer of dreams. In context, these are really shitty advices of willful ignorance, but advice which R internalizes, and learns to live through his mother’s example, trying to follow it for his entire life. R being able to cry in Morty’s arms so openly carries a deep significance for his character.
> 
>  **End of The Night (1967):** R’s drunken singing is intended to feel jarringly disconnected from the story, as if R was lost in his own song. This song is a self-described "confession" of Jim Morrison's aims in life, and the title is taken from 1932 French novel _Journey To The End Of The Night_ by Louis-Ferdinand Celine. It is a nihilistic novel of savage, exultant misanthropy, combined with cynical humour. 
> 
> **“It’s Romantic Bullshit”** The remaining lyrics of the Doors song are from Romantic Era poet, William Blake’s, _Auguries of Innocence,_ originally a poem about power, oppression and poetic justice. Blake also wrote _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_ from which Aldous Huxley found the title of his book, _The Doors of Perception,_ documenting LSD usage. Jim Morrison’s band name, The Doors was an attribution to Huxley’s work.
> 
>  **Anyone who knows What Love is (Will Understand) (1963):** Irma Thomas was an American singer known as the "Soul Queen of New Orleans". Thomas is a contemporary of Aretha Franklin and Etta James, but never experienced their level of commercial success. This song was co-written by a young Randy Newman and future country star Jeannie Seely. 
> 
> Rihanna's song Love on the Brain, from Chapter 12, pays homage to this song using the same chord progression, and addresses the same themes. 
> 
> **Smoke Gets In Your Eyes (1958):** This traditional jazz standard was originally written in 1933 for the musical Roberta, starring Bob Hope. The lyrics were written by Otto Harbach and the music by Jerome Kern. It was covered, and charted at the tail end of the psychedelic movement by a band called Blue Fuzz.
> 
>  **Higher (2016):** Speaking to Vogue, Rihanna compared the song to a drunk voicemail. She explained, "You know he's wrong, and then you get drunk and you're like, 'I could forgive him. I could call him. I could make up with him.' Just, desperate." 
> 
> **Hendrix and Alcohol:** Hendrix would often become angry and violent when he drank too much. One of his girlfriends said of it, "You wouldn't expect somebody with that kind of love to be that violent...he just couldn't drink ... he simply turned into a bastard." Of himself, Hendrix admitted that he could not handle hard liquor, which, according to him “Set off a bottled-up anger, a destructive fury almost never displayed otherwise." R gets violent at the tavern around other Ricks, but with Morty he turns into more of the annoying, insistently naked and emotional type drunk. 
> 
> **Hendrix’s Drug Overdose:** In one of his final performances, Jimi reportedly told the audience "I've been dead a long time." R uses this same phrase when he shares with Morty the extent of his depression.

**Author's Note:**

> Update Schedule can be found on my [ Ao3 Profile ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Left_Handed_Rick/profile)
> 
> ###  Starry AU Constellation Map (Interconnected characters & fics in this AU)
> 
>      [ ✦ Starry AU World building & Update Schedule](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/)  
> [ **✦ The Starry AU Collection page** ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/STARRYAU)  
> [ ✦ Record Store Rick ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/STARRYAU/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Record+Store+Rick&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&collection_id=139130)  
> [ ✦ Weird Rick (C-137) ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/STARRYAU/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Weird+Rick+-+Character&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&collection_id=139130%20rel=)  
> [ ✦ Radio Rick ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/STARRYAU/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Radio+Rick&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&commit=Sort+and+Filter&collection_id=139130%20rel=)  
> [ ✦ Manager Rick ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/STARRYAU/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Manager+Rick&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&collection_id=139130)  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> ###  Extras for The Interconnected Starry Citadel AU 
> 
>        
>  [ ♬ Rick and Morty themed Playlists on Spotify ](https://open.spotify.com/user/qgd6gt9y4l98ubsslngy6a3ue?si=7mx-Uuw0QhGcpylR_tgB9g)   
>  [⚠ Starry AU fanart (and artist credits) on Mastadon (18+) ](https://fandom.ink/@left_handed_rick)   
> 
>   
> 
> 
> ### Kudos & Comments = ❤
> 
> Writing a 100K+ fic with heavy themes can take a lot out of you. So I have reserved a _very_ special thank you, for my good friend Sqk, who has been a steadfast, unmoving pillar of support through the hardest parts of this fic. Their friendship has been a continuous safety net that has kept me in a good, healthy headspace while writing all this angst, and because of that, their presence is a vital part of this fics regular updates and completion. Be sure to give them some love too with our collaborative fics in the Starry AU Verse Series.


End file.
